


Rise Of The Grey

by Lightning4119



Series: Rise [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Novelization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 04:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 376,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning4119/pseuds/Lightning4119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Until Daylen Amell was recruited into the Grey Wardens, his biggest concerns were hitting on other mages and avoiding pissing off the Templars. But he's got the skills, the talent, and the luck to save the world, and he'll do it, even if he has no idea what he's doing. And if he scores with that hot witch along the way, well...</p>
<p>A novelization of Dragon Age: Origins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes, before we get into this:
> 
> Just about everything that'll be brought up or mentioned has some basis in the story or the background lore (Daylen's birthplace, the names of Wardens, etc.)
> 
> This will be a part of a series, with later installments focusing on the canonical post-Origins DLCs (Awakening, Golems of Amgarrak, and Witch Hunt) and then Dragon Age 2, where I'll focus on all DLCs.
> 
> At this point, I don't plan to do a run of Inquisition (if you cut out the padding from that game it would be about twelve hours long), although parts may mention events from it.
> 
> I use mods when playing DAO these days. Specifically, the Talent Books, Any Time Party Picker, Any Time World Map, and Extra Dog Slot mods, for the sake of streamlining gameplay. All of these are available on the Nexus.

_On a cliff overlooking the dark waters of Lake Calenhad stands the tower fortress that is home to the Circle of Magi. This tower is the only place in Ferelden where mages may study their art among others of their kind. Within the high stone walls, the Circle practices its magic and trains apprentices in the proper use of their powers. But the Circle Tower is as much a prison as a refuge; the ever-vigilant Templars of the Chantry watch over all mages, constantly alert for any sign of corruption. This gilded cage is the only world you know. Found to be sensitive to magic at a young age, you were torn from your family and grafted here as an apprentice. Now, that apprenticeship is nearly over and all that remains is the final test: the Harrowing._

“What about this one?”

The Knight-Commander scoffed. “Him? He's constantly making escape attempts. Calls himself Anders, won’t answer to any other name. Shows promise as a healer, but he's a misfit, a troublemaker. Has a big problem with authority.”

“If he wants out of the Circle, the Wardens may be ideal for him.”

“Duncan, I doubt he'd be cut out for the discipline of Warden life.”

“You may have a point, First Enchanter. Few are suited to our way of life. Fewer excel at it. And with this Blight, we need the best. What about this one? Surana?”

The aging mage stroked his beard. “Ah, her. She is an excellent scholar, but she lacks drive. She would be a good candidate for the Wardens, but she seems uninterested in pushing herself.”

“How about Amell?”

The First Enchanter sighed. “I would rather you didn't.”

“Why not? He's an excellent candidate. He excelled in many of his classes, showed great aptitude in Primal and Creation magic. He made a good showing in Spirit magic and had no disciplinary problems that made the record. Very resourceful, very charismatic.”

“Duncan, in ten years he could be a Senior Enchanter. Maybe even a First Enchanter at some other Circle. Or even here.”

The Grey Warden raised an eyebrow. “Grooming a replacement, Irving? In ten years, he could be Warden-Commander.”

“Grooming a replacement, Duncan?” Irving shot back. He sighed. “I suppose if I refuse, you'll just invoke the Right of Conscription.”

“I would rather not have to, First Enchanter, but you know the threat we face.”

“Indeed. Well, I suppose it's decided, then. Daylen Amell it is.”

—ROTG—

There were several Templars standing around the room, impassive behind their helmets. The room at the top of the tower was chilly, but the shiver that rolled down his spine as the Knight-Commander stepped forward had nothing to do with the cold.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” Greagoir said. “Thus spoke the prophet Andraste as she cast down the Tevinter Imperium, ruled by mages who had brought the world to the edge of ruin. Your magic is a gift, but it’s also a curse, for demons of the dream realm – the Fade – are drawn to you, and seek to use you as a gateway into this world.”

Daylen fought the urge to roll his eyes. Growing up in a tower filled with religious warriors and priestesses had given him plenty of exposure to the Chant of Light, especially that particular verse. The Chantry workers had always seemed particularly intent on expressing how magic was something to be controlled and feared when he was around.

“This is why the Harrowing exists,” Irving chimed in. Daylen looked over to the First Enchanter. The man had been more of a father figure to him than his own father ever had. “The ritual sends you into the Fade, and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will.”

Morbid curiosity took over. “And if my will isn’t enough to fight the demon off?” Daylen asked, already suspecting the answer.

“It will turn you into an abomination and the Templars will be forced to slay you,” Greagoir said bluntly. Irving scowled at him, and the Knight-Commander gestured to a basin in the middle of the room, striding over to stand next to it. “This is lyrium: the very essence of magic and your gateway into the Fade.”

Irving placed a hand on Daylen’s shoulder as the young mage again fought the urge to roll his eyes. He knew full well what lyrium was, and the Knight-Commander's description was a vast oversimplification of its nature. “The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity, child,” he said in a low voice. “Every mage must go through this trial by fire. As we succeeded, so shall you. Keep your wits about you and remember the Fade is a realm of dreams. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real.”

“The apprentice must go through this test _alone_ , First Enchanter,” Greagoir said pointedly from across the room.

Daylen cracked his neck, smiling behind his beard. “In that case, First Enchanter, I'll be back in ten minutes. Keep my seat warm.”

“Ah, the confidence of youth,” Irving said. “Best of luck, child.”

“You are ready,” Greagoir said, gesturing to the basin. Daylen strode across the room, trying to keep his hands from trembling. Eyeing the glowing fluid in the basin, Daylen took a deep breath, before plunging his hand into the lyrium. What felt like a wave of ice crawled up his arm, and Daylen’s eyes snapped wide open as the world went white.

—ROTG—

“Oh, I hope that wasn’t just Irving being funny,” Daylen groaned, sitting up. “Then again, I don’t think he even has a sense of humor.” He looked around. “Or maybe he was serious,” the mage murmured, standing and looking at the Black City hovering in the distance. “Fuck me.” Catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a polished statue, Daylen was pleased to note his Fade-self did not look distinctly different from his waking self in these circumstances – brown hair and eyes, dark skin, and a neatly trimmed beard.

Focusing, Daylen felt the ambient magic of the Fade flowing around him and smiled. A wisp flared to life, hovering behind his shoulder, and Daylen felt a surge of power as the wisp strengthened his spells. Another flex of a mental muscle, and Daylen felt his skin harden. Smacking a fist into an open palm, Daylen grinned. “Let’s see what the big deal is with the Harrowing.” Looking around, he spotted a twisted, disturbing-looking statue standing off to one side. “My, you’re imposing, aren’t you,” he murmured, looking at the statue and remembering a thesis he’d once read on the Fade, noting that it was often hard to be sure what was alive and what wasn’t in the Fade.

Looking to his right, Daylen spotted a path. “Well then. Let’s get a move on!” He eyed the wisp orbiting his head. “Come on, Wispy. Just you and me, two against the Fade.” After a moment’s pause, Daylen spoke again. “And I’m already talking to myself.” Striding down the path, Daylen ducked as a ball of lightning whizzed by. Another splashed against his robes, and Daylen staggered in pain, spotting a wisp – the source of the attack – floating a dozen yards away. “Sodding thing,” he cursed, thrusting out a hand. A bolt of arcane energy blazed from his palm, and the wisp evaporated as the bolt impacted. Daylen had another spell ready in his other hand, and frowned as the wisp vanished. “Well, that was easy.” Heading up a hill, Daylen ran into another wisp, destroying the fragmented spirit with a burst of lightning. Yet another was waiting over the next hillock and fell as easily as the previous two.

“Someone else thrown to the wolves. As fresh and unprepared as ever.” Daylen spun, a ball of lightning coalescing in his hand, finding nobody behind him. “It isn’t right that they do this, the Templars. Not to you, me, anyone.”

Daylen looked down, spotting the source of the voice. “You’re a talking rat.”

The rat scoffed. “You think you’re really here? In that body?” The voice grew angrier. “You look like that because you _think_ you do!” He sighed, and went on. “It’s always the same. But it’s not your fault. You’re in the same boat I was, aren’t you?” The mouse flowed into a human shape, and Daylen kept his face carefully blank as he looked at the man, noting the robes he was wearing. “Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me…well, Mouse.”

“You can change your shape?” Daylen asked.

“Like I said, in this place, you are what you perceive yourself to be. I think I used to be like you…before. The Templars kill you if you take too long, you see. They figure you failed, and they don’t want something getting out. That’s what they did to me, I think. I have no body to reclaim. And you don’t have much time before you end up the same.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Daylen asked.

“There’s something here, contained, just for an apprentice like you. You have to face the creature, a demon, and resist it, if you can. That’s your way out.” Mouse paused a moment. “Or your opponent’s, if the Templars wouldn’t kill you. A test for you, a tease for the creatures of the Fade.”

Daylen winced. “Why pit me against such a creature?

“A question for those in the tower. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to ask. Maybe someday, so will I. There are others here, other spirits. They will tell you more, maybe help. If you can believe anything you see.” He looked around. “I’ll follow, if that’s all right. My chance was long ago, but you…you may have a way out.” He changed back into mouse form, and Daylen shrugged. “A dangerous spirit is not far,” Mouse warned. “Don’t go near it unless you’re ready to fight.” Daylen spotted a clearing surrounded by fire, and immediately went in the opposite direction. Destroying another pair of wisps, Daylen spotted a figure in Templar armor standing in front of several racks of weapons. “Another spirit this way,” Mouse whispered. “It never seemed equal to its name, to me.”

“Another mortal thrown into the flames and left to burn, I see,” the spirit said as Daylen and Mouse approached. “Your mages have devised a cowardly test. Better you were pitted against each other to prove your mettle with skill, than to be sent unarmed against a demon.”

“You know why I’m here?” Daylen asked, blinking hard. It was difficult to look the spirit in the eyes, mostly because Daylen could see out the back of the spirit’s helmet.

“You are not the first sent here for such testing. Nor shall you be the last, I suspect. That you remain means you have not yet defeated your hunter. I wish you a glorious battle to come.”

Daylen set his jaw. “I am nobody’s prey, spirit. Speaking of which, what kind of spirit are you?”

“I am Valor, a warrior spirit. I hone my weapons in search of the perfect expression of combat.”

Daylen examined the racks, noting the fine make of the weapons. “Did you create all of these weapons?”

“They are brought into being by my will. I understand that in your world, mages are the only ones who can will things into being. Those mortals who cannot must lead such hollow, empty lives.”

“Would one of these weapons affect the demon?” Daylen asked.

“Without a doubt. In this realm, everything that exists is the expression of a thought. Do you think these blades be steel? The staves be wood? Do you believe they draw blood? A weapon is a single need for battle, and my will makes that need reality.” The spirit paused. “Do you truly desire one of my weapons?” Daylen nodded. “I will give one to you…if you agree to duel me, first. Valor shall test your mettle as it should be tested.”

Daylen rested his weight on his back foot, crossing his arms over his chest. “It seems you would prefer to kill me yourself.”

The spirit flinched. “How dare you accuse me! I am no demon, preying upon helpless mortals to steal their essence! I am a being of honor and valor! I am a warrior!”

“Then prove it!” Daylen snapped. “Help me fight the demon!”

“You are insolent,” Valor replied. “But your will is unquestionably strong. Very well, mortal. You prove to me that you possess the strength to resist this demon.” Drawing a staff from the rack of weapons, Valor handed it to Daylen. “Go, prove your worth as you must. I am confident you will succeed.”

“Thank you, Valor,” Daylen said, giving the staff an experimental twirl. He and Mouse kept moving along the path. Daylen turned around and found a trio of ethereal wolves approaching. Daylen wondered whether their presence meant wolves could be mages for a few moments before zapping one with his new staff.

“Be cautious,” Mouse said. Daylen did roll his eyes this time. “There is…another spirit, here. Not the one hunting you, but still…” Daylen spotted the spirit in question. It looked like someone had partially skinned a bear, and spikes had grown from the exposed flesh.

“Hmm…so you are the mortal being hunted?” The beast asked. “And the small one…is he to be a snack for me?”

“What kind of spirit are you?” Daylen asked.

“It’s a demon,” Mouse hissed. “Maybe even more powerful than the one hunting you.”

“I am a spirit of Sloth, a creature of the Fade…unlike yourself. Mortals are ever the visitors here. Still, you serve your function. Only the mortals like yourself are truly annoying. Now, what do you want with me?”

“I could use some help defeating a demon,” Daylen said. “What better way to defeat a hostile spirit of the Fade but with the assistance of another spirit?”

“You already have that assistance,” Sloth said. “You have a very nice staff. Why would you need me? Go, use your weapon since you have earned it. Be valorous.”

“He looks powerful,” Mouse whispered. “It might be possible that he could…teach you to be like him.”

“What about you?” Daylen asked.

“I…don’t think I’d make a very good bear. How would I hide?”

“Nothing stopping you from going back to a mouse afterwards,” Daylen mused, before turning to the Sloth demon. “And then you could help me fight the demon.”

“It’s true. I am quite powerful in this form…when I wish to be. But teaching is so exhausting. Away with you now.”

“Do you want to learn?” Mouse nodded. “Mouse wants to learn. So teach him.”

“You wish to learn my form, little one? Then I have a challenge for your friend: answer three riddles correctly, and I will teach you. Fail, and I will devour you both. The decision is yours.”

“Why is it always riddles,” Daylen groused. “Alright, alright. I accept your challenge, Sloth.”

“Truly? This gets more and more promising. Your first riddle: I have seas with no water, coasts with no sand, towns without people, mountains without land. What am I?”

Daylen leaned his head back, musing on the riddle. “That would be a map, I suppose.”  
The sloth demon snorted. “Correct. Let’s move on. I’m rarely touched, but often held. If you have wit, you’ll use me well. What am I?”

“Rarely touched, often held…” Daylen’s face brightened. “My tongue. What else you got?”

“Yes, your witty tongue. Fair enough. One more try, shall we? Often will I spin a tale, never will I charge a fee. I’ll amuse you an entire eve, but alas, you won’t remember me. What am I?”

Daylen paced, stroking his beard. “It’s always the third one that’s the hardest. What is it, what is it…” He looked around. “Wait. Of course. The Fade is the land of dreams. It’s a dream!”

Sloth snorted again. “You are correct. You’ve proven yourself an amusing distraction. So, I shall teach you my form. Now, focus,” he said to Mouse. He quickly ran through the basics of transforming in the Fade, or as quickly as a Spirit of Sloth could, and moments later Mouse was a bear.

“Like this?” Mouse asked, rolling his shoulders. “Am I a bear? It feels…heavy.”

“You look like a large rug,” Daylen said. “You’ll do.”

“Hm. Close enough.” Sloth curled up, eyes closing. “Go, then, and defeat your demon…or whatever you intend to do. I grow weary of your mortal prattling.”

“Have a nice nap,” Daylen said dryly. “Come on…Bear? Mouse? You still prefer Mouse?”

“Mouse will do. Shall we?”

A quartet of ethereal wolves greeted them as they backtracked towards Valor’s armory. As a wolf charged by, Daylen ducked and gathered a ball of lightning in his hand. Thrusting the lightning into the wolf’s flank, he watched as the wolf disappeared, the lightning disrupting the spirit’s form. Then the mage staggered and fell as one of the wolves leapt onto his back, feeling teeth at his neck. Mouse roared, a mighty paw slapping the wolf across the clearing. The wolf slammed into a rock and vanished. Daylen pushed himself to his feet, shaking his head as Mouse engaged the remaining two wolves, and punched a fist into the air, a bolt of arcane energy flying from his fist and eliminating one of the other wolves. Mouse slapped the wolf across the muzzle, and bent, his jaws closing around its neck. Rolling his head, Mouse snapped the wolf’s neck, flinging the body across the clearing.

“Well done,” Daylen said as the final wolf disappeared, trying not to think how close he had just come to death. “You hurt?”

“No,” Mouse said, looking down at his paws. “I…like this.”

“Good,” Daylen said, staggering as a burst of lightning hit him. “Maker’s tits, this is getting old!” Firing a burst of lightning back, Daylen killed another wisp. “Oh, sod this,” he growled. “Come on, Mouse, I’m going to kill all these little bastards.” Another half-dozen wisps went down to various spells as Daylen and Mouse fought their way back to where he had woken up in the Fade. A pair of wisps fought as a team, only for Daylen to spray a torrent of lightning from his staff and destroy them both simultaneously. “Going to have to remember that one,” he mumbled, leaning on the staff. “Mouse, we good? I’m out of mana.”

“I’m tired of hiding!” Mouse shouted as he smashed the last wisp. “That’s all of them.”

“Good,” Daylen said. “Let’s go find this demon.” The two ran to the fiery clearing, and a creature that looked to be made entirely of fire crawled out of the ground. 

“And there,” Mouse said, “Is a spirit of Rage.”

“And so it comes to me at last,” the demon rumbled. “Soon I shall see the world through your eyes, mortal. You shall be mine, body and soul.”

“Are all spirits and demons this dramatic?” Daylen stage-whispered to Mouse.[1] The bear shrugged, and Daylen gave the demon a smile that was too wide for simple humor. “All right, then. Come get some.”

“Oh, I shall,” the Rage demon growled, summoning several wisps.

Daylen groaned, hosing down two of the wisps with a blast of lightning. Mouse charged the demon, and Daylen followed up with a bolt of arcane energy, thrusting the head of his staff through the center of the last wisp and discharging a bolt into the creature’s body. Daylen turned, frost gathering at the head of his staff, only to see Mouse pounding the Rage demon into the ground. The demon fell to the ground, evaporating into the ambient energy of the Fade, and Daylen leaned on his staff.

“You did it. You actually did it!” Mouse said, resuming a human form.

“Enough,” Daylen snapped. “What are you, really?”

The spirit hesitated. “I was like you, once,” Mouse said. “You know that. The Templars killed me when my Harrowing too long. I’ve been stuck here since.”

"You know something, Mouse?" Daylen said. "For a demon, you're not very smart."

Mouse blanched. "What are you talking about? I'm not a demon!"

"Really?" Daylen asked dryly. "And just how stupid do you think I am? You said you were an apprentice, but you're wearing a Senior Enchanter's robes. I spotted that the minute we met."

Mouse's face twisted into something that vaguely resembled a smile. "You are a smart one.” His eyes turned from a comforting green to pure black, and his voice went deeper than any human’s possibly could. “Simple killing is a warrior’s job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions, careless trust…pride.” The demon transformed, and Daylen looked up as Mouse became…something else. Limbs elongated and sharpened, skin grew harder and darker, and the creature’s frame expanded rapidly as it towered over Daylen. The mage fought the urge to discover if it was possible to wet yourself in the Fade as the Pride demon revealed itself. “Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests never end." With that, it vanished, and everything went white.

—ROTG—

“Are you all right? Say something, please…”

Daylen cracked an eye open, wincing at the headache he felt. “Jowan?”

His friend wheezed out a breath. “I’m glad you’re all right. They carried you in this morning. I didn’t even realize you’d been gone all night.”

“Nothing like snatching someone up in the middle of the night to engender trust for the Templars,” Daylen muttered, running his hands through his shaggy brown hair and brushing it back out of his eyes. He looked at his best friend. At a glance, the two could have passed for cousins, if not necessarily siblings – Jowan was far more fair-skinned than Daylen, and lacked the facial hair, but the two had the same hairstyle, similar builds, and generally similar facial features.

“I’ve heard about apprentices who never come back from Harrowings. Is it really that dangerous? What was it like?”

“It was a test of ability, that’s all,” Daylen said. “They send you into the Fade. Alone. Unarmed. And you have to defend yourself from demons.”  
“That makes sense,” Jowan mused. “They want to see if you can resist a demon and stop yourself from becoming an abomination.” He sighed. “And now you get to move to the nice mages’ quarters upstairs. I’m stuck here and I don’t know when they’ll call me for my Harrowing.”

“They’ll summon you to the test when you’re ready, Jowan,” Daylen said. “Easy, mate.”

“I’ve been here longer than you have,” Jowan pointed out. “Sometimes I think they just don’t _want_ to test me. You do the Harrowing, the Rite of Tranquility, or you die. That’s what happens.”

“They’re not going to kill you, Jowan,” Daylen groaned. “Relax!”

“They might not, but the Rite of Tranquility is just as bad, maybe worse!”

“Jowan, is there a point to this?” Daylen snapped, pressing two fingers to his forehead. A burst of healing magic washed away the headache.

Jowan shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t waste your time with this. I was supposed to tell you to see Irving as soon as you woke up.”

“I should go talk to him immediately, then,” Daylen said. “Otherwise I’ll get one of those disapproving looks of his.”

Daylen strode through the tower, nodding to his fellow apprentices and avoiding eye contact with the Templars. Shaking his head as an apprentice set fire not only to himself, but a nearby bookshelf in an attempt to master a rudimentary fire spell,[2] Daylen quietly greeted another apprentice. “Neria, how are you? Still tender?”

The elf all but snarled at him. “Piss off, Amell.”

Daylen took a step back. “Hey now, what’d I do?”

“Not what,” she spat, looking around and lowering her voice. “But who. You,” she looked around, and continued in a lower voice. “You had sex with Petra!”

Daylen shrugged. “So? I know for a fact you and Finn got Orlesian in the stacks two days ago.”

Neria flinched. “How did you know that?”

“Because I was in the next row, doing the same with Petra,” Daylen said with a grin.

“I…you…” The elf growled and turned back to the bookcase. “Go away.”

“How about tomorrow afternoon, then?” The elf turned around and glared at him, before sighing and nodding. Daylen grinned, winking at the elf as he headed up a set of stairs to the next floor of the tower. Nodding to Owain as he reached the next floor, Daylen took a right, heading away from Irving’s quarters. As he passed a Templar, the man gave him a polite nod.

“Greetings. I’m glad your Harrowing went well,” he said.

“So am I,” Daylen said as he kept walking. “I wasn’t looking forward to being run through.” He turned left at the next room. Daylen had never liked the Templar – Cullen, the name finally came to him. He always seemed far too nice, especially considering he would probably lop Daylen's head off in a moment were he given the order.

“Ah, there you are,” a mage said, looking up from laying out linens on the bed. “You are to be moved up from the apprentice’s quarters, and this will be your new room. Go on, make yourself comfortable.” Poking around, Daylen found a handful of coppers left by whoever the previous occupant was and a few sheets of vellum. Pocketing the coins, Daylen nodded to the man and circled back around the floor of the tower, heading for Irving’s quarters. He arrived to an argument.

Greagoir was upset. It was easy to tell when he was – he was awake. “Many have already gone to Ostagar – Wynne, Uldred, and most of the senior mages! We’ve committed enough of our own to this war effort!”

“Your own?” Irving said dryly. “Since when have you felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir? Or are you afraid to let the mages out from under Chantry supervision, where they can actually use their Maker-given powers?”

“How _dare_ you suggest-”

“Gentlemen, please!” The third man said. Daylen eyed him, noting lightweight armor as opposed to the heavy plate Templars wore or a mage’s robes. “Irving, someone is here to see you.”

“More problems, Knight-Commander?” Daylen asked. “As an herbalist, I can recommend a bowl of prunes. Should help matters.”

“Daylen!” Irving gasped, even as the younger mage noticed the edges of the dark-skinned man’s mouth twitching upwards. Greagoir’s jaw dropped, and Daylen seized the opportunity that audacity had provided.

“I’m sorry, First Enchanter,” Daylen said. “You asked to see me?”

“Yes, child. You are a new brother in the Circle.”

“This is…?” the new man asked, walking past the Knight-Commander.

“Yes, this is he,” Irving replied cryptically.

“Well, Irving, you’re obviously busy,” Greagoir said, clearly feeling as if he had been dismissed. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“Of course,” Irving replied absently as the Knight-Commander left. “Well, then…where was I? Oh, yes. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.”

“A Grey Warden? Here in the tower?” Daylen asked. He looked at Duncan, reappraising him. “You’re recruiting, I suppose. I doubt you bothered with the ferry just to get a hot meal.”

Irving nodded. “You’ve heard about the war brewing to the south, I expect? Duncan is recruiting mages to join the king’s army at Ostagar.”

“Yes, I suppose mages would be a useful asset to a group of soldiers, even an elementalist and healer like me,” Daylen mused. “Now I understand why so many senior mages are missing from the tower. I heard Greagoir mentioning Wynne had gone already. Her healing skills will be invaluable, I expect.” Daylen sighed. “Providing that the wounded don’t prefer prayer to actual healing.”

“With the darkspawn invading, we need all the help we can get, especially from the Circle,” Duncan said. “I fear if we don’t drive them back, we will face another Blight.”

“Duncan, you worry the poor lad with talk of Blights and darkspawn. This is a happy day for him.”

“First Enchanter, you’ve studied history, you know how serious a Blight can be,” Daylen objected. He shook his head. “But I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“The Harrowing is behind you,” Irving said. “Your phylactery was sent to Denerim. You are officially a mage within the Circle of Magi.”

Daylen nodded. “Good to hear.” He paused a moment. “Is there a pension involved, or…”

Irving bowed his head a moment, obviously fighting a smile behind his beard. “No pension, I’m afraid, but we have little use for money within the tower. I am proud to present you with robes befitting your new station, your staff, and a ring bearing the Circle’s insignia. Wear them proudly, for you have earned them.”

“Great,” Daylen said. “Now what?”

“It goes without saying that you shall not discuss the Harrowing with those who have not undergone the rite.” Daylen kept his face impassive, not letting on that he had already done exactly that. “Now, then, take your time to rest, or study in the library. The evening is yours.”

“I will return to my quarters,” Duncan said.

“Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan back to his room, child?” Irving asked.

“It would be my pleasure,” Daylen said, nodding to the First Enchanter. “Er…would you prefer I address you as Warden, or Ser Duncan, or…”

“Merely Duncan is fine,” the Grey Warden replied. “May I call you Daylen?”

“I would hope you would, you’d be surprised what I get called sometimes,” Daylen said. “Do you know the way, or should I lead?”

“Lead on, young man.” Daylen nodded, and the two set off, Daylen’s new robes and staff under his arm. He slipped the ring on, feeling the lyrium infused in the silver resonate with his magic. “Thank you for walking with me. I am glad for the company.”

“I wanted to talk to you a little more,” Daylen said, nodding to a passing mage.

“Yes? What about?”

“Why were Irving and Greagoir arguing about the war?”

“It is not my place to comment,” Duncan said stiffly.

Daylen turned to him, giving him the same mournful, ‘you can trust me’ eyes that had won the hearts of several mages and countless authority figures. “Please, I’d like to know.”

Duncan sighed. “Greagoir serves the Chantry, and the relationship between the Chantry and mages has always been strained.”

“Talk about your understatements,” Daylen muttered.

“You’ve realized by now that the Chantry merely tolerates magic? They watch only because they feel they must.”

“Yes, but they were arguing about the war,” Daylen said.

“Any mages who join the king’s army can unleash their full power on the darkspawn. In fact, I’m counting on it. Greagoir may be afraid of what will happen. What if mages decide they no longer want to be governed by the Chantry?”

“Simple,” Daylen said. “We would have mages who didn’t have to constantly fear for their lives. But I can understand your hopes. If you’re going to fight a war, an angry mage is a useful asset.” He cocked his head, giving Duncan a long look. “What are your opinions on the matter?”

“I believe we must defeat the darkspawn, one way or another. My opinions end there.”

“Have there been many darkspawn attacks?” Daylen asked. “We don’t get much news in here. Rumors from traders, mostly.”

“A horde has formed within the Korcari Wilds in the south. If they are not stopped, they will strike north into the valley. We Grey Wardens believe than an archdemon is leading the horde.”

“That sounds ominous,” Daylen said. “But then, things with the word ‘demon’ in their name usually are.”

“Darkspawn do attack the surface in ragtag bands, but Archdemons are capable of rallying the darkspawn, turning them into an unstoppable force. A horde of darkspawn is a veritable army. It is dire news indeed. I fear this is what we will have to face.” The two entered his quarters, and Duncan turned to the young mage. “Thank you again.”

“My pleasure, Duncan,” Daylen said. He turned to leave, before turning back to the man. “Duncan, you looking for one more? Not like I’m in a hurry to go face down a horde of blighted monsters, but if the darkspawn come knocking, I may not have much choice. If I have the ability to help, I feel I have the responsibility to help.”

Duncan lifted his chin, looking at Daylen. “An admirable attitude. I will raise the matter with Irving.”

“Please do,” Daylen said, spotting Jowan lingering outside the door. “Goodnight, Duncan.”

—ROTG—

Daylen’s friend was pacing, his hands clenched in front of him. “I’m glad I caught up to you. Are you done talking with Irving?”

“I think I am, for now.”

“I need to talk to you. Do you remember what we discussed this morning?”

“Of course I do,” Daylen scoffed. “You think I forgot in the half hour since we talked?”

“We should go somewhere else. I don’t feel safe talking here.” Jowan led him to the tower’s chapel. A robed sister was standing nearby, and Jowan nodded to Daylen. “We should be safe here.”

“Really,” Daylen said dryly. “In the chapel. The Templars’ favorite haunt.” He looked at the sister next to them. “With a priest standing _right there._ ” He shook his head.

“Not a priest,” the sister said. “I am merely an initiate.”

“A few months ago, I told you that I met a girl. This is Lily.” He gestured to the sister.

Daylen blinked as much of what he had talked about with his friend in recent weeks suddenly made sense. “Ah, I was beginning to doubt her existence. My condolences, Lily.”

“Very funny,” Jowan deadpanned.

Daylen smiled warmly. “I’m truly happy for you both. But you can’t have brought me here to chat about love.” His eyes widened. “Unless you’re up for something kinky and need my help.”[3]

“ _No_ ,” Jowan said firmly. “I’m not…no. Just…no.” Daylen gave him a wide grin, and Jowan shook his head. “Focus. Remember I said that I didn’t think they wanted to give me my Harrowing? I know why. They’re…going to make me Tranquil.” Daylen’s face hardened. “They’ll take everything that I am from me – my dreams, my hopes, fears, my love for Lily! All gone. They’ll extinguish my humanity.”

“That sounds terrible,” Daylen whispered. “How did you find out about this?”

“I saw the document on Greagoir’s table,” Lily said. “It authorized the Rite on Jowan, and Irving had signed it.”

“Why would they do this to you?” Daylen asked. “The Rite is supposed to be an absolute last resort!”

“There’s…a rumor about me. People think I’m a blood mage. They think that making me a Circle mage will endanger everyone.”

Daylen leaned back slightly. “And are they right about that?”

“Of course not!”

“Jowan, I trust you. You’re my best friend, I’ve known you for more than a decade,” Daylen said slowly. “But…why do they think you’re a blood mage?”

“Well, I have been sneaking around,” Jowan admitted. “But it’s because I’ve been sneaking around to _meet Lily_ , not using blood magic! People just assumed. But it’s not safe here for me anymore. I need to escape. I need to destroy my phylactery. Without it, they can’t track me down. And we need your help. Lily and I can’t do this on our own.”

“Give us your word that you will help, and we will tell you what we intend,” Lily said.

Daylen nodded grimly. “You have my word, Lily. This had better be a good plan you two have.”

“I can get us into the repository,” Lily said. “But there is a problem. There are _two_ locks on the phylactery chamber door. The first enchanter and knight-commander each hold one key. But it is just a door. There is power enough in this place to destroy all of Ferelden. What’s a door to a mage?”

“It can’t be that easy,” Daylen said.

“I once saw a rod of fire melt through a lock,” Jowan said. “You could get one from the stockroom. But Owain doesn’t release such things to apprentices.”

“We should stay here. One mage at the stockroom will attract less attention than a mage, an apprentice, and an initiate,” Lily said.

“All right, hang on a bit here,” Daylen said. “Look, this plan is insane. There’s no way that they would leave any door to the room holding the one thing Templars can use to track a loose mage vulnerable to magical attack. It’ll be warded against magic.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Jowan challenged.

“Well, my best idea involves picking pockets for the keys,” Daylen admitted. “And I can do that, but unless one of you has a way to get them close enough for me to snag the keys, I guess we’re taking the crazy plan.”

“Good luck,” Lily said. “Our prayers go with you.”

“Sodding stupid plans,” Daylen groused as he left the chapel. Heading to his new quarters, he changed into his new robes and slung his staff over his shoulder. “Sodding stupid Templars, sodding stupid Rite of Tranquility, sodding stupid Chantry sisters, sodding stupid Jowan…” He broke off as Owain came within earshot. “Hello there.”

“Welcome to the Circle’s stockroom of magical items,” Owain droned. “My name is Owain. How may I assist you?”

“I need a rod of fire,” Daylen said. “Do you have one in stock?”

“Rods of fire serve many purposes. Why do you wish to acquire this particular item?”

“Well, several reasons,” Daylen said. “Lighting fires, mostly, but I also need the rod for my research into…burning things.” He coughed nervously, before going on. “I’m investigating the effects of various glyphs and amplifier spells on fire spells.”

“Here is the form – ‘Request for Rod of Fire,’” Owain said, handing over a scroll. “Have it signed and dated by a senior enchanter. I will release a rod to you once I have the signed form.”

“I’ll be back shortly, then,” Daylen said. “Thank you.”  Looking around, he muttered to himself. “Just need the oldest, most senile, most doddering senior enchanter I can find.” Walking into the library, Daylen looked around, spotting a man in senior enchanter’s robes staring at a bookshelf. “Oh. Perfect. Sweeney’s more gone than here these days.”

“Oh, hello,” the man said as Daylen walked up next to him. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new to the Circle?”

“I’m recently here from the Kirkwall Circle, actually,” Daylen said, bullshitting effortlessly. “I studied under First Enchanter Orsino for a few years.”

“I’ve read some of Orsino’s work on the generation of fireballs,” Sweeney said. “He’s a fine mage.”

“Agreed,” Daylen said. “Senior Enchanter, could I trouble you for a favor? I need this form signed.”

“What’s this? A request form from the stockroom? ‘Rod of Fire…’” He grinned. “I remember when the junior mages I mentored asked for some of those. Turns out they were burning holes in each other’s trousers. One boy burned peepholes into the female apprentices’ dormitory!” He chuckled, and Daylen kept his mouth shut, letting Sweeney talk himself into it. “You’re not involved in any such rubbish are you? No, of course you’re not. Look at you. So angelic. Well, I won’t ask why you need it. Tower’s too boring lately. Tell you what, I’ll put my name on this form liiiike so…” he quickly scribbled his name on the form, and handed it back to Daylen. “And if you get the chance, burn a big hole in the seat of the trousers of the Templar that patrols the library. Do that for old Sweeney, won’t you? Bastard’s always giving me the stink-eye.”

“I’ll see if I can manage that,” Daylen winked. “Burning a hole in the wall to the ladies’ dorm, not a bad idea,” he mumbled as he headed for the stockroom. “Never had to use a peephole, they usually invited me in, but hey…”

—ROTG—

“Everything looks to be in order,” Owain said. Pulling a rod off the shelf, he handed it handle-first to Daylen. “Here is the rod you requested.”

“Cheers, Owain,” Daylen replied. Sticking the rod in his belt, he headed for the chapel. “Look what I found,” he said, tapping the handle of the rod.

“To the repository, then,” Lily said. “Freedom awaits.”

The trio headed for the basement. “Relax, you two,” Daylen hissed. “Look casual. The best way to get noticed is to look like you know you’re someplace you don’t belong. Even if you get caught, just act like you didn’t realize you weren’t supposed to be there.”

As they entered the basement, Lily turned towards Daylen and Jowan. “The Chantry calls this entrance ‘the Victims’ Door.” It is built of two hundred and seventy-seven planks, one for each original Templar. It is a reminder of all the dangers those cursed with magic pose.”

“You remember that you’re talking to two mages, right?” Daylen asked coldly. “How do we get past this thing?”

“The doors can be opened only by a Templar and a mage, entering together. The Chantry provides the password, which primes the ward, and the mage touches it with mana, to release it.” She turned to the door, holding out a hand. “First, the password. Sword of the Maker, Tears of the Fade.” A hissing noise came from the door, and Lily nodded. “Now it must feel the touch of mana. Any spell will do. But hurry.”

Nodding, Daylen summoned a quick burst of arcane energy, and the door swung open. The trio hurried through, spotting a heavier door ahead. A hallway extended to their right, and Jowan looked at the heavy door, nodding. “Do you have the rod with you? Melt the locks off!”

Daylen drew the rod, aiming and focusing his magic through the rod. He saw a pulse cross the door, and pushed another bolus of magic into the rod, with the same result.

“What’s the matter?” Lily asked. “Why isn’t it working?”

“Lily,” Jowan said, his hands moving through the proscribed movements for a basic spell with no result. “Something’s not right. I can’t cast spells here. Nothing works!”[4]

“These wards carved into the stone,” Lily said, eyeing runes carved around the doorframe. “This must be the Templars’ work. They negate any magic cast within this area. I should have guessed! Why would Greagoir and Irving use simple keys for such a door? Because magical keys don’t work! How do you keep mages away from something? Make their powers completely worthless!”

“I did point out this exact possibility,” Daylen muttered.

“That’s it then!” Lily cried. “We’re finished! We can’t get in.”

“There must be another entrance,” Daylen said soothingly. “The Templars didn’t design this place, they just moved into Kinloch Hold. It was Avvar-built, with some help from the dwarves, and if I know the architecture of those two cultures at all, there’ll be another entrance.”

“You actually paid attention in those classes?” Jowan asked, dumbfounded.

“So I enjoy learning,” Daylen said. “So what?” He shrugged, pointing down the hallway. “How about that way?”

“That door probably leads to another part of the repository,” Jowan said. “What are the chances of there being another entrance?”

“Do we have a choice?” Daylen said. “We go back, you’re Tranquil.”

“I’ll take any chance I get,” Jowan said. “Let’s hurry. We’ve wasted enough time.”

Luckily, the rod of fire _did_ work on that door. Unfortunately, the seemingly immobile suit of armor standing near the door took exception to Daylen melting the lock. Drawing a mace, the Sentinel swung at Jowan. Daylen body-checked the apprentice out of the way, the mace hitting him in the chest and ripping a large hole in his robe.

“By the Maker!” Lily gasped. “Are you all right?”

Daylen growled. “This bastard just messed up my _brand new robes_.” He parried the next strike from the Sentinel with his staff, before grabbing the suit of armor’s helmet and freezing it solid with a spell. Swinging his staff, the ball on the end of it shattered the helmet, and the armor dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

“Daylen, he hit you in the chest with that mace!” Lily cried. “You must be horribly wounded!”

“I’m fine,” Daylen said, turning to face her. “Magic is a wonderful thing. My skin is as hard as stone right now. It just winded me.” Lily looked uncomfortable with Daylen’s statement, but Jowan shrugged as he stood up. “Let’s keep moving. If anyone spots a fresh robe lying around, let me know.”

Heading up a set of stairs, the trio ran into another pair of sentinels. Daylen froze one solid and Jowan hit the other with a bolt of lightning, before the apprentice was forced to start running as the mobile sentinel pursued him with a drawn sword. Daylen loosed a bolt of arcane energy from his staff, and the charging sentinel collapsed, as the first one thawed. Daylen spun, a torrent of electricity pouring from his staff and arcing across the sentinel’s armor. It dropped, and Daylen exhaled. “Anyone hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” Jowan said. “Lily?”

“We should move,” she said quietly. “These things are…not of the Maker.”

“One thing, first,” Daylen said, pointing to a storeroom to their left. “Let’s see what we can find.”

“We should not steal!” Lily gasped.

Daylen looked over at her incredulously. “We’re already up on breaking and entering, attempting to help a mage become an apostate, and destruction of Circle property. Are you telling me theft is going to make anything worse?” He found a set of robes with some Tevinter script embroidered on the sleeve. “Ooh. Dibs.” Digging out a staff, he tossed it to Jowan. “I’d appreciate a moment, I’m going to change here.” Tugging off his ruined robes, Daylen quickly pulled on the new robes, feeling magic surging through the lyrium weave in the robes. Sliding on a ring he found in the pocket, Daylen shrugged. “This’ll do. Let’s move.”

—ROTG—

“After we destroy my phylactery, I’m leaving behind all magic. I’m done with it. I’m just going to find a nice quiet place where Lily and I can – Daylen, must you stop to search _every_ crate?” Jowan asked, exasperated.

“Work with me here,” Daylen said. “I’m breaking about a thousand different rules here, I’m going to get something out of it!” Chucking a tin of salve over his shoulder, Daylen pulled out a dagger. “Say, Lily, can you fight?”

“A little,” the initiate admitted. Daylen handed her the dagger, and resumed digging through the crate.

Daylen pulled out a handful of rings and amulets, and a couple of belts. “Jowan, can you identify any of these things?”

“This is a Templar amulet,” Jowan said, looking over one of them. “The Mark of Vigilance. The best mage-hunter Templars are granted these as rewards by the Divine.” He tilted his head. “Wonder how it got in here, considering that they’re usually entombed alongside the Templar when he dies.” Daylen handed him another one, and Jowan turned it over in his hands. “This is dwarven-made. House Dace, I believe. And that one,” he said, pointing at the amulet Daylen had in his hands, “looks like a replica of the Pearl of the Anointed.”

“A replica?” Daylen echoed.

Jowan quirked an eyebrow. “Do you really expect the amulet that Kordillus Drakon of Orlais – the Anointed himself – wore during his campaigns to spread the Chant of Light throughout Thedas to have ended up in the basement of a Circle in Ferelden?”

Daylen gave his friend a nervous smile. “I suppose you have a point there.”

“Are you quite done?” Lily hissed. “We have to keep moving!”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” Daylen said. The trio kept moving through the repository, and Daylen looked to his friend. “So where are you going to go after this?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Jowan admitted. “Far away from here, from any Templars, from magic and Circles and the Chantry.”

“Maybe try some place near Gwaren, in the Brecelian Forest,” Daylen suggested. “Not many Templars out that way.” He spotted another group of sentinels ahead, and rolled his eyes. “Company. Lily, circle around the right and-” he broke off as a lump of conjured stone slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his back. Daylen wheezed, and Jowan hit a robed sentinel – who had knocked Daylen flat – with a bolt of lightning. “Maker’s balls,” Daylen rasped, pushing himself to his feet. “Ow.” Leaning on his staff, Daylen let loose a blast of frost from his other hand, freezing the other two sentinels solid. Lily lunged, shattering one with a strike from her dagger.

“Daylen, you hurt?” Jowan shouted, hitting the robed sentinel with a bolt of arcane energy. The sentinel collapsed and vanished, and Daylen coughed, feeling pain shooting across his chest.

“I’ll live,” the mage gasped, letting loose a bolt of lightning that finished off the other armored sentinel.

Jowan turned, a bolus of healing magic gathering in his hands, and Daylen felt some of the pain in his chest wash away. “I think your sternum may have been cracked,” Jowan said.

“Let’s keep moving,” Lily urged.

“Fine,” Daylen said, leaning heavily on his staff.

Several more groups of sentinels and a group of deepstalkers fell before the group. Daylen’s crowd-control spells proved invaluable, keeping the trio from being overwhelmed.

“Is this the repository?” Daylen asked as the group entered a larger storeroom. Eyeing a bookshelf, he quickly scanned a handful of titles.

“Let’s look around,” Lily said. “We’ll need another way into the phylactery chamber.”

The trio circled around, and Daylen paused in front of an Avvar-inspired statue. He could feel mana leaking from the statue, and leaned closer.

“There’s something odd about that statue,” Jowan muttered.

“I wonder who this is supposed to be,” Daylen asked nobody in particular.

“Greetings,” an ethereal female voice said.

Daylen took a surprised step back, bumping into Jowan. “Maker’s breath!” Jowan said. “Did it just say something?”

“I am the essence and spirit of Eleni Zinovia, once consort and advisor to Archon Valerius,” the statue went on. “Prophecy my crime, cursed to stone for foretelling the fall of my lord’s house. ‘Forever shall you stand on the threshold of my proud fortress,’ he said, ‘and tell your lies to all who pass.’ But my lord found death at the hands of his enemies and his once-proud fortress crumbled to dust, as I foretold.”

Daylen gave Jowan a confused look. “You would think that someone who hired someone to be their advisor would _listen_ to them, even when they told them something they didn’t want to hear.”

“A Tevinter statue!” Lily gasped. “Don’t listen to it! The Tevinter lords dabbled in many forbidden arts! This is a wicked thing!”

Daylen rolled his eyes at Lily’s comments. “How did they do this? Are you still alive?”

“Weep not for me, child,” the statue said soothingly. “Stone they made me and stone I am, eternal and unfeeling. And I shall endure ‘til the Maker returns to light their fires again.”

Daylen blinked. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“Ambiguous rubbish,” Jowan sighed. “It could mean anything! I can do it too! The sun grows dark, but lo! Here comes the dawn!” Daylen sniggered, and Lily tugged at Jowan’s sleeve.

“Stop talking to it. Please, both of you.”

“We can’t do much with it, anyway,” Daylen said. “Sorry to have bothered you, Eleni. Maybe I’ll come back sometime. Don’t run off.”

“Did you…” Jowan smiled in spite of the situation. “Let’s go.” Looking to his left, his eyes narrowed. “I think the phylactery chamber is on the other side of the wall behind this bookcase.”

Daylen looked at the wall behind the bookcase. “It looks weak in spots, here. You think we can break it down?”

“We have to try,” Jowan said. “Can we move the bookcase?”

“With a little elbow grease, sure,” Daylen said. “Come on, help me.” The two managed to shift the bookcase aside, and Daylen eyed the archway on the wall. “I told you! They did have another entrance, but they bricked it up.”

“Got a way to un-brick it?” Jowan asked, leaning on a statue behind Daylen.

“Not sure,” Daylen said, running his hands over the wall. “They did a shoddy job, but a rod of fire won’t so much as scratch this.”

Jowan looked down, recognizing what he was leaning on. “Well what about this thing? It amplifies magic that goes through it.” He pointed out a slot on the back of the dog-shaped statue’s head, and Daylen nodded.

“Well, stand back then,” Daylen said. “I’d hate to come all this way only to accidentally immolate one of you two.” Plugging the rod of fire into the back of the statue’s head, he pushed a pulse of magic through the rod. A torrent of fire that would make a senior enchanter pyromage jealous poured from the statue’s mouth, and the wall crumbled under the assault. Daylen blinked away the afterimage. “Well, that’s your problem right there.”

“We must find Jowan’s phylactery quickly,” Lily said as they entered the room. Ice was gathered at the edges of the room, and the trio saw clouds in front of their faces as their breath fogged up in the cold. Daylen shivered as the chill set in through his robes.

“So, what, we just smash the thing?” Daylen asked.

“Yes,” Jowan said. “Once the phylactery is destroyed, they would have to make a new one to track me.” He looked at a set of vials, each one clearly labeled. “Would you destroy yours too, if it were here?”

“Not much point in discussing that,” Daylen said. “It’s already been sent to Denerim.” Two more sentinels began moving, and Daylen groaned. “Oh, great.” One of them, a heavily armored sentinel, dodged the bolt of arcane energy Daylen fired at it and barreled straight at Daylen, ignoring the lightning that splashed across its chest from Jowan’s staff. Daylen’s next spell, a burst of frost, slowed the sentinel but didn’t stop it, and Daylen parried a crushing blow from the sentinel’s mace only to take a shield to the face. Daylen dropped to his knees, blood spurting from his nose, and as the sentinel’s mace hand came down Daylen reached up, grabbing and freezing the gauntlet, the arm, and a fair chunk of the breastplate solid. Lily thrust the blade of her dagger through the frozen metal, twisting the blade free and shattering the sentinel.

“Help!” Jowan yelped, running away from the remaining sentinel as it swung a sword at him. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Daylen lobbed a blob of conjured grease on the floor, sending both Jowan and the sentinel skidding across the room. Jowan thumped against a bare section of wall without injury, but the sentinel clattered to a halt, the helmet rolling away. There was nothing underneath.

“Jowan, get clear!” Daylen ordered, drawing the rod of fire. Jowan scrambled away from the grease, slipping and sliding, as the sentinel struggled to its feet. Daylen knelt, the rod of fire heating up and a burst of flame setting the grease alight. The sentinel attempted to move through the burning grease, before the heat and damage to the armor disrupted it completely and it collapsed.

“Daylen?” Jowan turned, spotting Daylen holding his face, blood leaking through his fingers. “Daylen!” Skidding to a stop on his knees in front of his friend, Jowan pried his friend’s face away from his face. “Daylen, let me see, mate.”

Daylen turned his head away, coughing and spitting out a mouthful of bloody phlegm. “I think that shot may have cracked part of my skull.”

“Well, your nose is broken, I can see that much,” Jowan said, pressing two fingers to the bridge of Daylen’s nose, healing magic gathering in his palm. With a muffled crunch, his nose shifted back into place, and Daylen grunted in pain.

Batting his friend’s hands away, Daylen shook his head. “Andraste’s flaming nipples, that hurt. I got it from here.” Readying a stronger healing spell, Daylen pressed a hand to his own forehead. He groaned as the magic took effect. “Oh, that stings.” He smiled faintly at his friend. “You better really appreciate this, Jowan.”

“I do, my friend,” Jowan said softly. “Are you all right?”

“I need a minute,” Daylen admitted, scrubbing his face clean with a rag. “Find your phylactery. Let’s finish this.”

“Jowan!” Lily called from elsewhere in the chamber.

The apprentice hurried over, and gasped. “That’s my phylactery! You found it! I can’t believe this tiny vial stands between me and freedom.” Picking it up, he looked at the phylactery, his eyes alight with hope. “Such a little thing to cause so much trouble.” Dropping it, he stepped back as the glass shattered on the stone floor. “Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to be here any longer.”

Lily managed to get the door open, and the trio headed up the stairs to the main level of the tower.

“We did it!” Jowan said. “I can’t believe it! Thank you. We could never have-”

A voice came from their right. “So what you said was true, Irving.” Irving, Greagoir, and a trio of Templars had been waiting off to one side.[5]

Several moments passed as both parties simply stared at one another. “Well,” Daylen said, his voice coming out as a nervous squeak. “This looks bad.”

“G-Greagoir,” Lily whimpered.

“An initiate, conspiring with a blood mage,” Greagoir shook his head. “I’m disappointed, Lily.” He looked closer at her. “She seems shocked, but fully in control of her own mind. Not a thrall of the blood mage, then.” He turned to the First Enchanter. “You were right, Irving. The initiate has betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished.” He pointed at Daylen. “And this one, newly a mage, and already flouting the rules of the Circle!”

“I’m disappointed in you,” Irving said quietly. “You could have told me what you knew of this plan, and you didn’t.”

“Hard to trust you when I knew you had authorized the Rite of Tranquility on a friend of mine,” Daylen replied coldly.

“You don’t care for the mages! You just bow to the Chantry’s every whim!” Jowan spat.

“Jowan, please don’t make it worse,” Daylen said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Enough!” Greagoir boomed. “As Knight-Commander of the Templars here assembled, I sentence this blood mage to death!”

“Whoa, now, let’s not get hasty,” Daylen began.

Nobody listened, and Greagoir went on. “And this initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar.”

“The…the mages prison,” Lily squeaked. “No…please, no. Not there!”

“No!” Jowan shouted. “I won’t let you touch her!” Drawing a knife, Jowan stabbed himself in the hand, blood flowing upwards into a cloud around him. He thrust his hands out, and Daylen staggered back from the force of the attack, even as Irving and the Templars were knocked out.

“By the Maker,” Lily gasped “Blood magic! How could you? You said you never…”

“I admit,” Jowan said, shuffling nervously. “I dabbled! I thought it would make me a better mage!”

Lily stepped back, her hands up in front of her. “Blood magic is evil, Jowan. It corrupts people, changes them!”

“I’m going to give it up, all magic!” Jowan said. “I just want to be with you, Lily. Please, come with me!”

Lily had one hand clenched around the hilt of her dagger. “I trusted you,” she cried. “I was ready to sacrifice everything for you! I…I don’t know who you are, blood mage. Stay away from me.”

Jowan turned to Daylen, tears shining in his eyes. “Daylen,” he started.

“Jowan,” Daylen said, staring at him. “I’m giving you one chance. Run. Now.” The blood mage sprinted away, and Daylen knelt next to Irving, rousing the elderly man. “First Enchanter, are you all right?”

“Where’s Greagoir?” Irving asked.

“I knew it,” Greagoir snarled, pushing himself to his feet. “Blood magic. But to overcome so many…I never thought him capable of such power.”

“I can’t believe he just did that,” Daylen said, still on his knees. “He lied to me. Used me.”

“None of us expected this,” Irving said. “Are you all right, Greagoir?”

“As good as can be expected given the circumstances! If you had let me act sooner, this would not have happened! Now we have a blood mage on the loose and no way to track him down!” Daylen kept quiet, and Greagoir turned away, fire in his eyes. “And where is the girl?”

“I…I am here, ser,” Lily said, stepping out from the corner.

“You helped a blood mage! Look at all he’s hurt!”

“You forced Jowan’s hand,” Daylen said quietly.

“Knight-Commander, I…I was wrong. I was accomplice to a…a blood mage,” Lily stammered out. “I will accept whatever punishment you see fit. Even…even Aeonar.”

“Get her out of my sight,” Greagoir ordered, turning to Daylen. “And _you_. You know why the repository exists. Some artifacts – some magics – are locked away for a reason!”

“Did you take anything important from the repository?” Irving asked.

“No,” Daylen lied.

Either Irving didn’t care, or lacked the eyesight to realize that Daylen was wearing a blatantly different set of robes. “Very well, I believe you.”

“But your antics have made a mockery of this Circle!” Greagoir cut in. “Ah…what are we to do with you?”

“Hey, now, I had no idea he was a blood mage!” Daylen protested.

“And you think this excuses you? You helped a blood mage escape! All our prevention measures for naught – because of you!”

“Look,” Daylen snapped, “If an initiate, an apprentice, and a mage who has been Harrowed for less than a day can get past them without significant trouble, your ‘prevention measures’ aren’t worth shite to begin with!”

“How _dare_ you-”

“Knight-Commander, if I may,” Duncan said from the door. “I am not only looking for mages to join the king’s army. I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens. Irving spoke highly of this mage, and I would like him to join the Warden ranks.”

Greagoir half-turned towards the Warden. “Duncan, this mage has assisted a maleficar, and shown a lack of regard for the Circle’s rules. He is a danger. To all of us.”

“It is a rare person who risks all for a friend in need,” Duncan replied. “I stand by my decision. I _will_ recruit this mage.”

“No!” Greagoir bellowed. “I refuse to let this go unpunished!”

“You don’t have a choice in the matter,” Daylen said. “I paid attention in class. If Duncan invokes the Right of Conscription, he can recruit anyone, mage or not, nobility or not. If the Grey Wardens will have me, I will gladly go.”

“Greagoir, mages are needed,” Duncan pointed out. “ _This_ mage is needed. Worse things plague this world than blood mages. You know that. I take this young mage under my wing and bear all responsibility for his actions.”

“A blood mage escapes, and his accomplice is not only unpunished, but is rewarded by becoming a Grey Warden,” Greagoir spat. “Are our rules nothing? Have we lost all authority over our mages? This does not bode well, Irving!”

“Enough,” Irving replied tiredly. “We have no more say in this matter.”

Daylen turned to Duncan. “What lies in store for me now?”

Duncan nodded. “We must make our way to Ostagar, where the king’s army is camped. You will be initiated there. I will explain more when the time comes.”

“Perhaps the Grey Wardens will appreciate my talent more,” Daylen muttered, glaring at Irving and Greagoir.

“You will have ample opportunity to hone your skills, I assure you,” Duncan replied. “Come, your new life awaits.”

—ROTG—

_Among apprentices of the Circle, nothing is regarded with more fear than the Harrowing. Little is known about this rite of passage, and that alone would be cause for dread. But it is well understood that only those apprentices who pass this trial are ever seen again. They return as full members of the Circle of Magi. Of those who fail, nothing is known. Perhaps they are sent away in disgrace. Perhaps they are killed on the spot. I heard one patently ridiculous rumor among the Circle at Rivain, which claimed that failed apprentices were transformed into pigs, fattened up, and served at dinner to the senior enchanters. But I could find no evidence that the Rivaini Circle ate any particular quantity of pork._

_—From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Yes, yes they are. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 Which for some reason was performed in a room full of flammable objects. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3 Hey, you never know unless you ask, right? [ return to text ]
> 
> 4 Well, performance issues... [ return to text ]
> 
> 5 Oops. [ return to text ]
> 
> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	2. Journey to Ostagar

_Darkspawn_  
Those who had sought to claim  
Heaven by violence destroyed it. What was  
Golden and pure turned black.  
Those who had once been mage-lords,  
The brightest of their age,  
Were no longer men, but monsters.  
\--Threnodies 12:1.

_Sin was the midwife that ushered the darkspawn into this world. The magisters fell from the Golden City, and their fate encompassed all our world's. For they were not alone._

_No one knows where the darkspawn come from. A dark mockery of men, in the darkest places they thrive, growing in numbers as a plague of locusts will. In raids, they will often take captives, dragging their victims alive into the Deep Roads, but most evidence suggests that these are eaten. Like spiders, it seems darkspawn prefer their food still breathing. Perhaps they are simply spawned by the darkness. Certainly, we know that evil has no trouble perpetuating itself._

_The last Blight was in the Age of Towers, striking once again at the heart of Tevinter, spreading south into Orlais and east into the Free Marches. The plagues spread as far as Ferelden, but the withering and twisting of the land stopped well beyond our borders. Here, darkspawn have never been more than the stuff of legends. In the northern lands, however, particularly Tevinter and the Anderfels, they say darkspawn haunt the hinterlands, preying on outlying farmers and isolated villages, a constant threat._

_\--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

—ROTG—

“So, Duncan?” Daylen asked once the two were safely on dry land. Nodding to Kester as the ferryman tied up the boat, Daylen looked at the Grey Warden. “What’s the plan from here?”

“We will stay here until daylight, and then set out for Ostagar,” Duncan said. “We have an ox-drawn cart here.”

“Good,” Daylen said. “It’s been a long night.” He idly tugged at his beard. “Duncan, I want you to know, what I did for Jowan…”

Duncan cut him off with a shake of his head. “It is irrelevant. Wardens leave their pasts behind. What you were before, whatever mistakes you made, it does not matter. You are now a Warden.”

“Fresh start, eh?” Daylen nodded. “Fair enough.” The two entered the inn, and the innkeeper nodded to Duncan, clearly familiar with the man. “Do innkeepers ever sleep? It’s a few hours until daylight and he’s still up?”

“I had word sent ahead,” Duncan remarked. “I imagine you must be hungry.”

In response, Daylen’s stomach growled. “I suppose,” the mage said sheepishly.

The innkeeper put out a hearty if simple spread – eggs, bread, butter, and the remnants of a roast, washed down with some ale.

“I must say,” Duncan said as Daylen downed the last of his ale, stifling a burp. “You show remarkably little sign of fatigue, despite the events of the past day.”

Daylen smiled faintly, holding up a hand. Sparks danced across his fingertips. “Rejuvenation spells. I can keep men going for days.”

“Very useful,” Duncan said, eyeing the half-formed magic Daylen was wielding. “You know this from experience?”

“I’ve never had reason to test its limits, but I’ve kept six people refreshed for a day and a half back in the Circle and barely felt it. It helps when a bunch of mages can stay up day and night to study for exams.” Daylen admitted. “Even I don’t know what my limits are.”

“I look forward to seeing your real potential, Daylen,” Duncan said. “The Wardens ask much of their recruits.”

Daylen nodded. “I’ll try not to disappoint. If you don’t mind, could you tell me about the Grey Wardens?”

“There is a great deal about our order that must be kept secret until after your formal induction into the Grey Wardens,” Duncan said.

“I can understand that,” Daylen said. “It seems like a great deal of information about the Wardens has been carefully withheld from the history texts. I mean, there’s people not recording things, but when there’s a noticeable lack of information, that seems almost deliberate…” He shook his head. “What sets you aside from the normal rank and file, for example. I’ve got a few theories as to what that is, but nothing seems to hold up.”

“An interesting exercise,” Duncan allowed. “What conclusion have you reached?”

“Well,” Daylen said, scratching his beard. “We, the regular people, know that the Wardens spend all their time either hunting darkspawn, fighting darkspawn, looking for better ways to fight darkspawn, or training to fight darkspawn. However, despite the great deal of exposure Wardens face to darkspawn as an occupational hazard, no text ever mentions a Warden suffering from Blight sickness, so there must be something about the Wardens that grants them immunity to the Taint and makes them effective against darkspawn.” Daylen nodded to the innkeeper as the man refilled his tankard. “What that is I couldn’t begin to guess, beyond being magic-related.” Duncan gave a noncommittal grunt, and Daylen shrugged. “I don’t know. I could be completely wrong. Regardless, is there information you can give me?”

“Ask your questions,” Duncan said. “If I can answer then, I shall do so to the best of my ability.”

“How many Wardens are in Ferelden these days? After all, the order was only allowed back in Ferelden in the past couple of decades.”

“We have about two dozen Grey Wardens within Ferelden’s borders,” Duncan said. “All are currently at Ostagar, where the king’s army is massing. We will be meeting them there, traveling south through the Hinterlands to the ruin of Ostagar.”

“That Tevinter outpost on the edge of the Korcari Wilds?” Daylen asked. Duncan nodded. “Thought that place had been abandoned since the First Blight.”

“It remains a viable defensive position,” Duncan said. “The king’s forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. The Blight must be stopped there. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden _will_ fall.”

“Well then, we’ll have to make sure that it gets stopped there,” Daylen declared.

“It may not be that easy,” Duncan said. “We have but a few Wardens in Ferelden, and no guarantee the Archdemon will show itself.”

“Then how do we plan on winning this?” Daylen asked pointedly. “You’ve told me a whole lot of bad news and yet we’re still walking into a situation that seems completely stacked against us.”

“The king’s chief advisor, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, is formulating a battle plan,” Duncan replied. “We have the terrain advantage and defensive fortifications. It is possible to win this battle and decimate the oncoming horde.”

“Well, fingers crossed then,” Daylen said, clearly not convinced. “I’ll do what I can to help out then. And we’ll see what I can really do when I don’t have a Templar eyeing me.”

“I sometimes wonder if the Chantry’s many laws regarding magic are even necessary,” Duncan admitted. “Darkspawn are a greater threat than blood mages, even abominations. It takes decades for the world to recover from a Blight.”

“The Chantry is blind,” Daylen said, before pausing. “All right, maybe that’s not entirely fair. They’re…focused. The same way the Wardens are.” Duncan raised an eyebrow, and Daylen went on. “The Wardens focus on fighting darkspawn, essentially to the exclusion of all else. That’s their job, the destruction of darkspawn and the Blights. The Chantry is the same way with mages. They focus on the potential dangers of mages to the point of tunnel vision because they think that’s their job. The difference is that a mage can kill dozens. A darkspawn horde can kill hundreds of thousands.” Daylen stared into the inn’s fireplace. “I’ve read accounts from the First Blight. And the Second Blight. We’re lucky to have survived at all, let alone won.”

“Such is the burden of a Grey Warden,” Duncan said, looking out the inn’s window. “The dawn is approaching. We should go.”

“Any idea how long it’ll take us to get to Ostagar?” Daylen asked as Duncan hitched the oxen to the cart.

“Depending on the oxen, it may take us anywhere from six to ten days to make the trip,” Duncan replied. “We must make all possible speed.” The two climbed into the wagon, and the steady pace of an ox took them away from Kinloch Hold, along the edge of Lake Calenhad.

Duncan looked over at his newest recruit. “I would know you better, young man.”

Daylen quirked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Duncan, but you’re not my type.”

For the first time since Daylen had met him, Duncan laughed. “I did not mean it that way, Daylen.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “I know. Can’t resist an opportunity like that, though. What would you like to know?”

“While your history does not matter to the Wardens, I need to know that you can follow my command when the time comes,” Duncan said. “I must admit, I have my doubts as to your respect for authority. Irving spoke highly of you, but the incident with Jowan has me…concerned.”

Daylen looked down at his hands. “I deeply regret what happened there. I realize that the Wardens do whatever is necessary to stop a Blight, but neither Jowan nor I were Grey Wardens. I helped a friend that I thought was in danger escape an authority that – to the best of my knowledge – had no idea that he was sneaking around to meet a girl, not practicing blood magic. Had I known? I probably would have gone to Irving immediately after Jowan asked me to help him escape. I think that the Jowan I knew died the minute he cut himself the first time.”

“What do you think of the people of Ferelden and Thedas in general?”

“I think that humans are flawed. Bastards, even. But that’s life. It’s like an uncleaned stable. Smelly, full of shite, and there’s an upset horse in there somewhere. But they deserve a chance to learn, to grow, to live. And if I can give that to them by blowing up a few thousand darkspawn, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

"You truly believe that?" Duncan asked.

Daylen nodded. “Give a man a chance to act honorably, without manipulation, and he usually will. For the sake of humanity, we have to believe that.”[1]

As the miles fell away, the Warden and his recruit discussed Warden history, magical applications against darkspawn, and the issues with the Right of Conscription. Covering almost ten miles a day with the ox team on the old Imperial Highway, the two made a quiet camp when they had to and stayed in inns when they could. On the sixth day, Duncan and Daylen found themselves in a small village, with refugees flooding it.

“Lothering,” Duncan said by way of explanation. “This village will be amongst the first hit if the darkspawn are not stopped.”

“I can understand that,” Daylen murmured, looking at the map. “If the darkspawn get past Ostagar, there’s not much other place for them to go.” Looking at the activity in the village, he blinked in confusion, before looking to Duncan. “Wait. Why are these people still here?”

“People are often resistant to leave their homes and farms, even in the face of disaster,” Duncan said, pausing a moment. “Especially in case of disaster.”

“Homes can be rebuilt, crops replanted, but dead is dead,” Daylen protested. “These people are standing in the way of a darkspawn horde. What, do they think that the darkspawn are just going to go around them? The place is packed with refugees as it is. Why would they think the darkspawn is just going to stop? If the refugees came this way in these numbers, whatever made them refugees can’t be far behind?”

“Calm yourself, Daylen,” Duncan said quietly. “We must avoid inciting panic.”

“Panic is the appropriate response, Duncan!” Daylen snapped. “I just…forget it. You’re right. If these people have any sense, they’ll leave.” He looked to the Warden. “What’s the move?”

Duncan shook his head. “We cannot stay here for the night. The risk of your abilities raising a problem with the local Templars is too great.”

Daylen hopped out of the wagon, the rough leather of his boots hitting the dusty highway. Magic glowing around his hands, he poked each ox in the flank, waves of magic splashing over the beasts of burden. Clambering back into the wagon, Daylen nodded to the older man. “Those oxen should be good for another ten, twelve miles. Provided the light holds out.”

“Excellent,” Duncan said. “We shall pick up water and a few additional Warden packages that are being held here before moving on.”

“Anything you need me to do, boss?” Daylen asked.

Duncan looked at him a moment. “Can you handle picking up the packages? I realize you may not have much experience outside of the Circle.”

“I…” Daylen’s face fell. “I suppose that’s true. I can give it a try.”

“Excellent.” Duncan handed over a token displaying a Warden insignia. “There is a Warden in the village. A young elven girl, by the name of Tamarel. Show her this token, she will give you the packages.”

“Young elf named Tamarel. Show her the token, got it.” Daylen nodded. “Meet back here?”

“No,” Duncan replied. “At the village’s stables.” Daylen nodded, and the two split up.

After almost two hours, Daylen found himself leaning against a fencepost, wondering how he was supposed to find a single elf in a village packed to bursting with refugees.

“Excellent, Daylen,” he muttered. “Your first job as a Warden and you’ve got no idea how to do it.”

“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?” A passing woman asked.

Daylen looked her up and down. “No, but I’d like to.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Something I can help you with?”

“Plenty, but maybe some other time. For the moment, I need to find someone.”

“Congratulations, you did it.” Daylen grinned, and the girl winked at him. “Now, are you looking for someone in particular?”

Daylen found himself wondering why this girl was brightening his mood so much. “Yes, a female elf named Tamarel.”

Her face hardened. “What do you want with her?”

Daylen shrugged. “She's an associate of mine. Well, sort of. She will be an associate of mine. It's hard to explain. I'm just here to pick up a package from her.”

“She's staying in our barn. About a half-mile, that way.” She pointed towards the outskirts of the village, and Daylen nodded.

“Thank you. I didn't catch your name?”

“Hawke,” she said lightly. “Bethany Hawke.”

“Bethany,” Daylen repeated. “I'm Daylen. Nice meeting you.” He gave her a warm grin, and the woman turned slightly pink. “Maybe we’ll see more of each other sometime.”

Ten minutes later, Daylen found himself at a small if well-kept farm. A mabari was dozing on its back on a rough patch of grass next to the cottage, its tongue lolling out to one side. As Daylen approached, he coughed politely, and the dog rolled over, tilting its head at him. Daylen dredged up what he remembered about mabari hounds and looked the hefty pooch in the eyes.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your nap, but is there someone here I could talk to?” The dog snuffled, before scratching at the cottage door.

A woman’s voice came from inside the structure. “Something wrong, boy?” The door opened, and a fit woman peered out, a shock of black hair drawn back over deep brown eyes. “Hello there. Something you need?”

“Sorry to bother you,” Daylen said. “Um…I'm looking for an elf. Name of Tamarel. She's an associate of mine. A girl named Bethany said I could find her here?”

“Oh, her,” the woman replied. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“Well, normally I would say it's confidential, but it's your land, so…” Daylen shrugged. “She's holding a package for my boss, I'm just here to pick it up.”

The woman gave him an appraising look for a moment, before nodding. “Sure. She's out in the barn. I'll show you.”

“Thank you,” Daylen replied, extending a hand. “I'm Daylen. I didn't catch your name?”

“Dana Hawke,” the woman said, shaking Daylen's hand. Daylen felt a tingle through her palm, and gave her a look of his own. Hawke's eyes narrowed, and the two slowly pulled back from each other.

“I get the feeling we both sense the same thing about each other,” Daylen began. “But I don't feel the need to discuss it.”

“Agreed,” Hawke replied. “My mother would be very upset if we ruined her rosebushes fighting. Maker knows my dog does enough damage.”

Daylen snickered. “Now I have the image of a mabari picking flowers.”

“Oh, sure,” Hawke said airily, leading Daylen around the back of the cottage. “He's rather skilled at arranging them, too. He brings my mother a lovely bouquet every Satinalia.” She knocked on the barn door. “Hey, Tamarel? You decent in there? I've got someone here, says he's a friend of yours.”

“Friend is kind of a strong word,” Daylen said.

“Acquaintance, then.”

Daylen gave her a pained look. “We've never met.”

Hawke quirked an eyebrow. “Secret admirer? Pen pal? Come now, you must know each other somehow.”

“She works for my boss,” Daylen said. “I'm afraid I'm not permitted to say more.”

“Duncan, finally!” The door swung open, and the elf started talking. “I've been stationed in this village for four…” Her eyes narrowed. “You are not Duncan.”

“Duncan sent me, gave me this token to show you,” Daylen said, opening his hand to show her the item. “Said you had a package for me?”

“Two packages, actually.” The elf retreated into the barn, shifting a hay bale aside to reveal a pair of wooden boxes. “Tell Duncan that everything he'll need for his recruits is in here.”

“Got it,” Daylen said, accepting the packages. “Thank you.”

“Tell him I'll be heading back to Denerim after this,” Tamarel went on. “My job here is done.” She looked to Hawke. “Hawke, please extend my warmest thanks to Leandra. She's been wonderful.”

“Wait,” Daylen said. “Leandra?” A memory briefly triggered in his mind, but he shook his head.

“Something wrong?” Hawke asked.

“No, nothing,” Daylen said. “I had an aunt named Leandra. But I don't think she would have lived anywhere around here.”

Hawke shrugged. “Oh well. I'd ask you to stay for dinner, but I imagine you have things you need to do.”

“Too right,” Daylen said, tucking the boxes into his robes. “Hawke, it was nice to meet you.”

“Indeed it was,” Hawke replied with a smile.

Tamarel rolled her eyes. “Honestly, she's been like this since I got here. It's a disease.”

“Well, I must be off,” Daylen went on. “But we knew that.”

“And apparently it's contagious,” Tamarel mumbled. “I’m out of here. Have fun, you lot.” Hefting a pack over her shoulder, the elf headed onto the road, quickly walking out of sight.

“Thanks for the assistance, Hawke,” Daylen said. “I should go.”

“Glad to help,” Hawke replied. “Maybe we’ll talk more later.”

—ROTG—

“Duncan, I got the packages,” Daylen said, setting them in the back of the wagon. “Apparently everything you need for your recruits is in here, and Tamarel is going back to Denerim now.”

“Good,” Duncan mused, stroking his beard. “Her task in Lothering is completed.”

“Is she a Warden as well?”

“Yes, but she will not be at Ostagar with us,” Duncan replied. “She is a specialist, and combat of the kind we will see at Ostagar is not suited to her abilities.”

Daylen shrugged. “Fair enough. We moving on, then?”

“Indeed,” Duncan replied. “We have what we need.”

—ROTG—

“So, that’s Ostagar,” Daylen said. “It’s…well, it looks like a shithole.”

“Defensive fortifications rarely take aesthetic appeal into consideration,” Duncan replied. “This is a ruin of a defensive fortification. It’s not going to look like Val Royeaux.”

“Fair enough,” Daylen shrugged, eyeing the narrowing path ahead and a heavily-built man waiting for them. “I suppose we’re walking from here?”

Duncan nodded. “Leave the wagons here, this man will take care of him.”

“Someone we trust, I hope,” Daylen said.

“He’s a Warden,” Duncan explained, pulling the wagon to a halt. “Greetings, Richu.”

“Hail, Duncan,” the man said. “It is good to see you here. Did you accomplish everything you set out to do?”

“Yes. We have everything we need now,” Duncan said.

“Except more Wardens,” Richu retorted.

“Actually,” Daylen chimed in, raising a hand in greeting. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Richu raised an eyebrow. “And who are you, boy?”

“Daylen Amell,” the mage said, grabbing his satchel and the backpack that held everything he had looted from the Circle tower and dismounting the wagon. “Mage, Warden recruit, and your reinforcements.”

Richu looked him up and down. “Eh. You’ll do.”

“Have any reinforcements arrived from Orlais?” Duncan asked.

“Plenty, Duncan,” Richu replied dryly. “It’s only a three-week trip from the border to here, but the Orlesian Wardens made it in time _of course we didn’t get any reinforcements_.”

Duncan sighed. “I knew it was unlikely. But I had hoped we would get more Wardens.”

“Is the situation that dire?” Daylen asked. “I mean, I understand that there are only a couple dozen Wardens in the entire nation, but…”

“The more Wardens we can throw into this, the better,” Richu declared. “There is no such thing as overkill when it comes to darkspawn.”

“We need to check in with King Cailan,” Duncan said. “Richu, can you handle the wagon?”

“Why do you think I’ve been standing here, Commander?” Richu asked.

“Take care,” Daylen said as the two walked towards the bridge leading to the main section of the fortress.

“Ho there, Duncan!” a voice called. A tall, blonde man wearing massive, burnished golden armor with a greatsword strapped to his back approached, an honor guard at his back.

“King Cailan?” Duncan looked genuinely surprised as the two clasped hands, another first in the time Daylen had known him. “I didn’t expect-”

“A royal welcome?” Cailan interrupted with a smile. “I was beginning to worry you’d miss all the fun!”

“Not if I could help it, your Majesty,” Duncan replied.

“Then I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all!” Cailan looked at the valley the bridge overlooked. “Glorious! The other Wardens told me you’ve found a promising recruit.” He looked to Daylen. “I take it this is he?”

“Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty,” Duncan began.

Cailan waved him off. “No need to be so formal, Duncan. We’ll be shedding blood together, after all.” As Daylen fought to avoid mentioning he liked keeping his blood inside him, Cailan addressed him directly. “Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?”

“I highly doubt it, but anything is possible,” Daylen remarked before he could stop himself. Duncan’s mouth opened slightly, a couple of the honor guard’s jaws dropped, and Daylen winced.

Luckily for everyone involved, Cailan laughed. “You’ve got yourself a lively one, Duncan. And I was beginning to think the Wardens were all stodgy priests!” Duncan breathed a sigh of relief, and the honor guard relaxed. “I understand you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you have some spells to help us in the coming battle?”

“I’ve shown equal aptitude at blowing things up and healing wounds, your Majesty,” Daylen remarked. “I’ll do my best, of course.”

“Excellent,” Cailan declared, clapping Daylen on the shoulder. “We have too few mages here, another is always welcome. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks.”

Daylen flushed slightly, unused to such attention. “You’re too kind, your Majesty,” he mumbled.

Cailan shrugged. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies.”

“Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week,” Duncan chimed in.

Cailan scoffed. “Eamon just wants in on the glory. We’ve won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different.”

“I didn’t realize things were going so well,” Daylen said. “You sound very confident.”

“I’m not even sure this is a true Blight,” Cailan said, turning away. “There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an Archdemon.”

“Disappointed, your Majesty?” Duncan asked.

Cailan shrugged. “I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do.” He turned back to the twosome. “I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Warden!”

“He seems quite confident,” Daylen remarked as soon as they were out of earshot. “Maybe a little too much.”

Duncan started walking towards the main camp. “What the king said is true. They’ve won several battles against the darkspawn here.”

“Yet you don’t sound very reassured,” Daylen said slowly.

Duncan pursed his lips. “Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an Archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.”

“Yes you can,” Daylen argued. “If there’s an Archdemon directing the darkspawn, they won’t be some mindless horde. They’ll use tactics and strategy that a simple raid wouldn’t. You _need_ to tell the king about this, if that’s the case. And if he’s not going to listen to the professional expert on dealing with and killing darkspawn, who is he going to listen to?”

Duncan sighed and stopped walking, turning to look Daylen in the eye. “Amongst those in power, the Wardens still have a black mark on their reputation in Ferelden due to their expulsion from the nation years ago. Pushing too hard would give the impression that the Wardens are trying to influence those in power again, and we _must remain neutral_. It is one of the core principles behind our order. We _do not play politics_. Our job is the destruction of darkspawn.”

Daylen nodded, properly chastised. “What would you have him do?”

“Wait for reinforcements,” Duncan said. “We sent a call out west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais, but it will be many days before they can join us. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we must proceed with the Joining ritual without delay.”

Daylen’s stomach rumbled. “A hot meal might be nice, first,” Daylen mumbled.

Duncan chuckled. “I agree! We have until nightfall to begin the ritual. Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining to become a Grey Warden.” Duncan nodded at Daylen’s thoughtful look. “Yes, this is what sets us aside from the normal people. The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon. You are not the only recruit we have here, but we have been waiting for you.”

“And I take it that all or part of what I picked up from Tamarel is needed for the Joining?”

“You are correct,” Duncan replied. “Make no mistake, the Joining is dangerous. But it is necessary to become a Grey Warden.”

“Wonderful,” Daylen said. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

“Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being.”

“Don’t worry, Duncan, I’m not going to run off,” Daylen said.

“There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it’s time to summon the other recruits. Until then I have business I must attend to. You may find me at the Grey Warden tent on the other side of this bridge, should you need to.”

Nodding to the soldier at the end of the bridge as he passed by, Daylen felt a tingle of magic in the air and spotted several mages working in an enclosure guarded by a surprisingly skinny Templar. Daylen tucked his shoulders in, keeping his head down and avoiding the Templar’s eyes as he passed by.

“What do we have here?” he heard. He paused, looking up and spotting another mage. “I heard the new Grey Warden recruit was from the Circle. I don’t believe we’ve met, but I’ve certainly heard a lot about your talent.”

“You have?” Daylen asked. “I wasn’t aware I’d made that much of an impression.”

“When the First Enchanter takes a personal interest in the progress of a single apprentice, the other enchanters take notice,” the mage replied. “I understand you’ve quite some skill as a healer as well as in primal magic.”

“My first magical release was directed at a healing burst,” Daylen admitted. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name? I’m Daylen Amell.”

“My name is Wynne,” the mage said. “I must congratulate you on passing your Harrowing. Marvelous work, the Fade is a dangerous place.”

“I’m told I set a record for the fastest and cleanest Harrowing, but I’m not sure how one measures such things,” Daylen admitted. “It didn’t seem that difficult, but I seem to be rather lucky.”

“Not difficult, eh?” Wynne gave him a skeptical look. “You know all there is to know already, do you? Irving said as much about you – remarkable self-confidence.” Daylen kept silent, and she went on. “So, a Grey Warden…fighting alongside the king. Not too shabby for someone just out of apprenticeship.”

“King Cailan thinks the battle will go well,” Daylen replied. “I’m not so convinced, but…”

“But the king must always seem confident,” Wynne interrupted. “His behavior affects the troops’ morale. He does seem to find his enthusiasm easily, though. Reminds me of a puppy, and I say that with both respect and affection. He is a fine man. To defeat the darkspawn, we will have to work together. It’s not an idea that everyone seems able to grasp.”

“You can say that again,” Daylen said, shaking his head. “But I should be going. Lots to do.”

“Well, don’t let this old mage distract you from your duties. I’m sure Duncan has much for you to do.”

Daylen nodded, moving deeper into the camp. Spotting the quartermaster, Daylen checked his coin purse, overhearing a bow-wielding man talking to an unimpressed female soldier. “So…any last wishes I can help fulfill before you head into battle? Life is fleeting, you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow.”

“Nothing to charm a woman’s heart like telling her she could get her head cut off,” Daylen said as the woman glared at the archer.

“Well, you’re not what I thought you’d be,” he said as the woman stalked off.

“What’d you think I’d be?” Daylen asked.

“Me, I was hoping for a comely lass with golden hair and terrible eyesight,” he replied with a chuckle. “The name’s Daveth. It’s about bloody time you came along. I was beginning to think they cooked this ritual up just for our benefit.”

“Maybe they did,” Daylen said conspiratorially.

“Just to give us a good scare?” Daveth considered it for a moment before shaking his head. “No, they don’t really seem the type.”

“You’re right,” Daylen said. “That would require a sense of humor, and I haven’t seen one amongst the Wardens yet.”

Daveth snorted. “Too right. I happened to be sneaking around camp last night, see, and I heard a couple of Grey Wardens talking. So I listen in for a bit. I’m thinking they plan to send us into the Wilds.”

“Maybe they will,” Daylen mused. “We’ll see. Between your bow and my magic, I think we can handle any barbarians or darkspawn.”

“Yes, but it’s all too secretive for me,” Daveth said. “Makes my nose twitch.”

“I hear that,” Daylen agreed. “I haven’t been able to get a straight answer out of Duncan since he recruited me.”

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Daveth sighed. “Like we have a choice.”

“They’re forcing you to be here too?” Daylen asked. “Well, in that case, I’ll watch your back if you watch mine.”

“I suppose I could do that,” Daveth said, extending a hand. Daylen clasped hands with him the way he’d seen Duncan do with Cailan, and the two shook hands. “Anyway, I expect it’s time to get back to Duncan. That’s where I’ll be, if you need me for anything.” Daylen nodded, before turning to the quartermaster.

“Hi there,” he said.

“Something you need?” The man asked.

“Supplies,” Daylen replied bluntly. “I’m a Grey Warden.”

“Good to have you here, what with those slavering monsters about.”

Daylen looked around. “Who, the darkspawn?”

“No,” the quartermaster replied quietly. “Them nobles. Wicked beasts, they are.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Daylen laughed. “Anyway, I’ve got some weapons, armor, poultices and potions about if you need ‘em.” Daylen hocked just about everything he could spare – a handful of amulets and belts he had looted from the Circle’s repository and the weapons had gathered in the tower for a half-dozen health potions, a handful of weak lyrium potions, and whatever reagents the man had in stock to craft with. The quartermaster handed him a couple of sovereigns to make up the difference.

“I’m looking for another Warden,” Daylen said, tucking the items into his satchel, along with his healthier coin purse. “Name of Alistair. You seen him?”

“Oh, him?” The quartermaster pointed up a nearby ramp. “He went that way. Bit of an odd duck, that one.”

“Thanks for the information,” Daylen said. “Have a nice day.

As he approached, Daylen heard an angry voice speaking. “What is it now?” Haven’t Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?”

“I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage,” a man in splintmail was saying soothingly. “She desires your presence.”

“What her Reverence ‘desires’ is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens – by the king’s orders, I might add!”

The armored man raised an eyebrow. “Should I have asked her to write a note?”

“Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

“Yes, _I_ was harassing _you_ by delivering a message.”

“Your glibness does you no credit,” the mage snapped.

“Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you. The grumpy one.”

“Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must!” The man turned to Daylen. “Get out of my way, fool!”

“Watch it, man,” Daylen growled at him. “You may be a senior enchanter but show a little respect.” The man rolled his eyes and pushed past him.

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” the other man remarked as the senior enchanter stormed off.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Daylen agreed with a smile.

“It’s like a party,” he went on. “We could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about.” He looked closer at Daylen. “Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

“Besides innate abilities, membership in the Circle, and a passed Harrowing I wouldn’t,” Daylen said. “What, the robes and staff didn’t tip you off?” Alistair winced, and Daylen gave him a sympathetic look. “Would that make your day worse?”

“I’m not sure that’s possible,” the man Daylen could only assume was Alistair admitted. “And here I thought I’d been yelled at by every mage in camp. Wait, I _do_ know who you are. You’re Duncan’s new recruit, from the Circle of Magi. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize.”

“No offense taken, but how could you recognize me?”

“Duncan sent word,” he said. “He spoke quite highly of you.”

“He did?” Daylen asked, scratching his beard. “I didn’t realize I’d impressed him.”

Alistair shrugged. “He seemed to think you were a worthy recruit. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alistair, the new Grey Warden, though I guess you knew that.”

“I’d come to that conclusion by now, yes,” Daylen said. “Duncan sent me looking for you.”

“As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”

Daylen extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, as Alistair clasped hands with him. “My name is Daylen.”

“Right, that was the name,” Alistair replied. “So, I’m curious. Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Daylen said. “You?”

“When I fought my first one, I wasn’t prepared for how monstrous it was,” Alistair said quietly. “I can’t say I’m looking forward to encountering another.”

“You may be in the wrong line of work,” Daylen suggested.

Alistair snorted. “I do enjoy the camaraderie, however. Anyhow, when you’re ready let’s head back to Duncan. I imagine he’s eager to get things started.”

“I look forward to traveling with you, Alistair,” Daylen said.

“You do?” Alistair looked genuinely surprised. “Huh. That’s a switch. If you have any questions, let me know. Otherwise, lead on!”

The two walked by the kennels, and a man in leathers addressed them. “Say, you’re the Grey Wardens, aren’t you? Would you mind helping me out?”

“Sure,” Daylen said. “What do you need?”

“I’ve got a hound who’s sick,” the kennel master replied. “I have medicine that might help, but I need him muzzled first.”

Daylen eyed the warhound in the pen. “Maker, he’s a big one.” He looked to Alistair, who gave a firm shake of his head. “Well, I’ll give it a shot.”

“Go in the pen and let him smell you. We’ll know right away if he’ll respond.” He handed Daylen the muzzle. “Let’s hope this works. I would really hate to have to put him down.”

Daylen entered the pen, and the mabari growled weakly at him. “Hey there,” Daylen said soothingly. “Look, I’m not here to hurt you. The kennel master can help you, but I’m going to need to muzzle you, all right?” The hound snuffled. “If we don’t help you, you’ll die.” The mabari whimpered, lying down on the straw in the pen. “Good boy.” Giving him a scratch behind the ears, Daylen quickly strapped the muzzle on the dog. “Hang in there, boy.”

“Well done!” The kennel master said. “Come to think of it, are you heading into the Wilds anytime soon?”

“Might be,” Daylen said. “Not sure. Why?”

“There’s a particular herb I could use to improve the dog’s chances. It’s a flower that grows in the swamps here, if I remember. I’d get it myself, but you lot are Wardens, fighting darkspawn is what you do. If you happen across it, I could use it. It’s very distinctive – all white with a blood-red center.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Daylen promised.

“Good. In the meantime, I’ll begin treating our poor friend here.” Daylen gave the man a nod, before heading up another ramp.

“This is the infirmary,” Alistair said. “Duncan’s tent is that way.”

“I know,” Daylen said. “I’m an herbalist of some skill, I want to know if I can help out.” He looked around, spotting an herbalist. “I’ve got training in herbalism and healing. Is there something I can do to help?”

“I don’t have time to attend to everyone,” the man said bluntly. “You’re a mage?”

“Healing is a specialty of mine,” Daylen said.

The herbalist smiled. “This way. Most of the mages haven’t had time to assist us, and very few cases that we couldn’t treat with non-magical healing have survived this long.”

Daylen nearly threw up when he saw the first patient – a man who had had half his leg crushed. Any aversion to magical treatment was a non-issue since he was in a coma. “What did this?” Daylen asked, tasting bile as he looked beneath the bandages.

“A darkspawn maul,” the herbalist said. “We lack the supplies to treat this man, even if we could un-crush the leg.”

“Got it,” Daylen said. “Luckily there’s no sign of gangrene. This happened in the past day or two?”

“He was part of a scouting party,” the herbalist supplied.

Daylen cracked his knuckles, sparks jumping across his fingers. “I should be able to save his life.”

“With the leg in that condition?” Alistair asked.

“There’s no gangrene and most of the bits and pieces are still there, even if they’re not in the right places,” Daylen replied, a bluish-white cloud gathering around his hands. He began pumping healing magic into the wounded leg, flesh and bone moving back into the proper places. “He’ll still need a week or so to recover from this, however.”

“A week or so,” Alistair said. “Because they thought he’d live at all.”

“He should wake up within a day.” The leg began turning pink again as blood flow resumed, and Daylen exhaled slowly. “He’ll never walk again, that leg is crippled. But he’ll live.”

The second wounded man that Daylen treated was clinging to the cot, shaking and sweating. “This man was poisoned with an unknown toxin less than a day ago,” the herbalist said. “So far, we haven’t been able to identify it, as the blade wasn’t recovered.”

Daylen looked under the bandage on the man’s belly. “Oh, Maker, that’s not good.” He looked up. “This wound isn’t just gangrenous, it’s gangrenous…” he looked down at the wound again. “And still bleeding. Somehow.”

“Can you save him?” Alistair asked.

“Maybe,” Daylen said. “Do me a favor, Alistair. Fish around in my satchel, see if you can find a vial with blue liquid inside.”

“You want a lyrium potion?” Alistair asked.

“You know what it is?” Daylen asked, before shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Grab me a dose. This is going to be draining.” Shaking out his hands, he placed them on either side of the wound, pumping healing magic into the poisoned man. The necrotic tissue began to burn away, steam rising from the wound, and the man cried out in pain. “Sorry, mate, I’d put you to sleep but I never got the hang of that spell. Hang in there, it’ll only hurt a moment more.” The steam ceased, and the man collapsed, gasping for air. “All right, I think I’ve isolated the poison.” Daylen pressed down on the man’s belly, and a trickle of reddish liquid trickled from the wound.

The herbalist collected it in a vial, and eyed it. “Soldier’s Bane, but in a concentration I’ve never seen before,” he declared. “This is strong stuff, but with this we can devise an antidote.”

“Good,” Daylen rasped, sitting on the edge of the cot. “Alistair. Where’s that vial?” Alistair handed him the potion, and Daylen tipped it back, grimacing. Letting out a deep breath, Daylen stood. “All right. Let’s get that wound closed.” A quick healing spell knitted the flesh together, and the wounded man breathed easier. He finished up with a quick rejuvenation spell, and the man sat up. “Easy,” Daylen said. “Get a few hour’s rest and a hot meal, and you should be combat-ready.”

“Thank you, Warden,” the man replied. “I won’t forget this.”

“Just doing what I can,” Daylen replied, looking to the herbalist. “Anyone else?”

“Yes, one,” he said, pointing out a man who was thrashing on a cot.

“My wounds!” The man howled. “They burn!”

“Alistair,” Daylen murmured. “Is this Blight sickness?”

“Yes,” Alistair replied. “Nothing that can be done about this, I feel.”

“Do you have access to any lyrium dust?” Daylen asked. “This is beyond my ability to heal.”

“The lyrium dust will help?” The herbalist asked, waving to another worker.

“He’s beyond help,” Daylen said quietly. “The lyrium will make an elfroot potion more effective that he’ll be comfortable.” The necessary reagents were supplied, and Daylen mixed as strong a concoction as he knew how to make. “This ought to do the trick.”

“Thank you, Warden,” the herbalist said.

“Greetings,” a man wearing chainmail said as Daylen and Alistair made to leave. “You must be the third recruit we’ve heard about?”

“Yes, I am,” Daylen replied. “Daylen Amell. Who are you?”

“Ser Jory is my name,” he replied. “I hail from Redcliffe, where I served as knight under the command of Arl Eamon. You have the bearing of a man who knows how to fight. If I may ask, were you a soldier before you came here?”

“I am a mage, not a soldier,” Daylen replied.

Jory flinched as if he had been slapped. “I…had heard mages had joined but…I had not…that is…”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Oh, relax. I’m not going to hurt you without reason.”

“Yes, I…I apologize. I have always found magic unnerving. I should be pleased that, in this case, it will be on our side. I suppose since you’re finally here I’d best get back to Duncan. I shall see you there.” The man practically ran off, and Daylen shook his head, looking to Alistair.

“People like that are a part of the problem,” he said. “I have to ask – do you have an issue with my being a mage?”

“Not particularly,” Alistair said. “You seem a decent enough sort. I can only hope you won’t turn me into a frog without reason.”

Daylen stroked his beard in thought. “I can’t see defeating the Blight requiring a forced transformation into a frog at any point. But I’ll let you know.”

The next half hour passed quickly. Daylen talked a guard into giving a suspected deserter a meal in exchange for a questionably obtained key, looted a chest full of valuable amulets, belts, and rings from behind a Tranquil watchman, and studiously ignored a Chantry sister who was loudly offering blessings every time they passed by.

“I suppose we had best get back to Duncan,” Daylen said.

“Indeed,” Alistair agreed, looking at the sun. “It’s getting a bit late.”

“Or we could go bother these men,” Daylen said, spotting a nearby tent.

“You approach the tent of Teyrn Loghain,” the guard challenged. “State your business.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Daylen said. “I’m a Grey Warden. Could you tell me about Teyrn Loghain?”

The guard looked surprised. “How can you not know of Loghain? He helped free Ferelden. He was the brains behind King Maric’s armies and drove out those damned Orlesians. King Maric rewarded him by making him a teyrn. Can you imagine? A commoner became a high nobleman just like that. Without Loghain, you can bet the king wouldn’t be winning against these darkspawn.”

“Is the teyrn inside?” Daylen asked. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s inside, but…I don’t think it’s my place to discuss his activities.”

“Surely you can tell me a little more about him,” Daylen pressed.

The guard sighed. “I suppose…as long as we talk quietly. He and the king have been arguing for days. The teyrn’s known the king since he was swaddled, so they don’t stand on ceremony. The teyrn speaks his mind, and the king yells right back. Personally, I think the king should do what Teyrn Loghain tells him. Without the teyrn, we wouldn’t be doing as well we are.”

“Thanks for the information,” Daylen said, deciding not to press his luck by asking to meet Loghain. A few moments’ walk had them standing by the bonfire Duncan’s tent sat near to.

“Ah, you found Alistair, did you?” Duncan said. “Good. I’ll assume you are ready to begin preparations. Assuming, of course,” he looked at Alistair, “that you’re quite finished riling up mages.”

“What can I say?” Alistair replied. “The revered mother ambushed me! The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.”

“That’d be interesting to see,” Daylen mused. “A revered mother guilting the darkspawn into surrendering.”

“She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don’t need to give anyone more ammunition against us.”

Alistair sighed. “You’re right, Duncan. I apologize.”

Duncan nodded. “Now then, since you are all here, we can begin.”

“Well, wait,” Daylen broke in. “He hasn’t riled me up. I feel left out.” Daveth sniggered, and Alistair was fighting a smile as Duncan rolled his eyes.

“Perhaps later,” the Warden-Commander said. “You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.”

“And the second task?” Daylen asked.

“There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.”

Daylen perked up at the thought of fresh knowledge. “What’s on these scrolls?”

“Old treaties, if you’re curious,” Duncan answered. “Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. They were considered only formalities. With so many having forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be a good idea to have something to remind them with.”

“Shame that we need to remind them,” Daylen muttered. “You’d think they’d have a vested interest in, you know, _not having their bloody world destroyed by darkspawn_.”

“You might think that,” Duncan said dryly, “but you’d be surprised.”

“What if the scrolls aren’t there anymore?” Daylen asked.

“It’s possible the scrolls may have been destroyed or even stolen, though the seal’s magic should have protected them. Only a Grey Warden can break such a seal.”

“I don’t understand,” Alistair broke in. “Why leave such things in a ruin if they’re so valuable?”

Duncan shrugged. “It was assumed we would someday return. A great many things were assumed that have not held true.”

“Find the archive and three vials of blood,” Daylen summed up. “Understood.”

“Then may the Maker watch over your path,” Duncan said. “I will see you when you return. Dismissed.”

The group passed the kennels, and Daylen quietly wondered whether going with three strangers into wild territory filled with darkspawn was a good idea.

“Hail!” The gate guard said as they approached. “I’m told you all have business in the Wilds. The gate’s open for you.” He looked left and right. “Just be careful out there. Even a Grey Warden won’t be safe in the forest tonight.”

“We should be back before then,” Alistair replied.

It was only about an hour’s walk before things started to happen. “Daveth,” Daylen said quietly. “Do you hear something?”

“Yeah,” the rogue replied. “I hear…growling?” Spinning, he nocked an arrow and drew, putting it through the neck of a snarling wolf.

Alistair drew his sword, catching a wolf’s lunge on his shield and grunting as he levered the animal up and over his head, letting its own momentum carry it past him. Unfortunately, Daylen happened to be standing behind him. Ser Jory’s greatsword kept a trio of other wolves at bay as Daylen collapsed under the wolf. Alistair lunged, stabbing a wolf in the neck as Jory’s greatsword caught another in the ribs, sending the yelping wolf flying across the trail.

“Little help down here?” Daylen hollered, crying out as the wolf managed to get its teeth around his wrist. The wolf shook its head, and Daylen screamed as his arm broke. He let a burst of elemental lightning loose, and the scent of burning hair flooded his nostrils as the wolf’s pelt caught fire. The beast howled, before letting his arm loose. Clutching his wounded arm to his chest, Daylen flung another bolt of lightning, hitting the burning wolf and sending it flying limp into a section of the bog.

Jory sank his greatsword into the back of the final wolf, and Daveth reached down, pulling Daylen to his feet. “You all right, then?” the rogue asked.

Magic flared around Daylen’s hand. “I’ll live,” he grunted, eyeing the teeth marks notched deep into his skin. Blood dripped freely, and the mage flooded his arm with healing magic, flesh knitting back together. Jory looked distinctly uncomfortable at the sight, and Daylen groaned in pain as the bone fused. “Oooh-hoh, that hurts.”

“Maker’s breath,” Daveth said quietly. “Can all mages do that?”

“Some,” Daylen said. “I’ve got a talent for healing and blowing things up.” Shaking out his healed wrist, Daylen looked to his companions. “Anyone else hurt?”

“Not a scratch,” Daveth said proudly. “Jory?”

“I am unhurt,” the warrior replied.

“I’m fine too, let’s move on,” Alistair said.

The party had only gone another minute or two before Daveth sniffed the air. “I smell a corpse.”

“You know what a dead body smells like?” Daylen asked.

“Smelled them enough times,” Daveth said quietly, looking around. Ah, here we go.” Slinging his bow, Daveth hauled a relatively fresh corpse out of the edge of a pond, pulling a letter from the dead man’s pocket. “Some missionary, off to meet his father.” Daveth looked up. “Some goodies there, apparently, we may want to reclaim that if we can.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Daylen said. “Let’s keep moving. Darkspawn to kill and treaties to find.”

Two minutes later, Daylen sighed. “This is neither of those things.”

“Who…is that?” The critically wounded soldier asked. “Grey Wardens?”

“Recruits, but yes,” Daylen said.

“Well, he’s not half as dead as he looks, is he?” Alistair remarked.

“My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn!” The man hissed in pain. “They came out of the ground. Please, help me! I’ve got to…” he gasped and clutched at the wound in his side. “I’ve got to return to camp.”

“Hold still, soldier, I’ll patch you up. Alistair, bandage some of the more minor wounds. I’ll see if I can get him back on his feet.” It took fifteen minutes of healing before the soldier stood shakily. “Head back to the camp.”

“Thank you!” He groaned in pain. “I’ve got to get out of here!”

“Did you hear?” Jory said after the man left. “An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!”

“Calm down, Ser Jory,” Alistair said soothingly. “We’ll be fine if we’re careful.”

“Not to mention that at no point were those men said to be seasoned,” Daylen said. “They could have been raw recruits for all we know.”

“Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There’s an entire _army_ in these forests!”

“Who said they were careful, either?” Daylen said.

“There are darkspawn about, but we’re in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde,” Alistair insisted.

“How do you know?” Jory challenged. “I’m not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back.”

“Jory, overcoming these dangers is part of our test,” Daylen said. “If we can’t handle a few bands of darkspawn, how can we be Wardens? It’s sort of in the job description!”

“I am simply trying to stay alive,” Jory replied defensively. “You do not see me fleeing, do you?”

“I see you arguing that we should _all_ flee!”

“A bit of fear isn’t unnatural, you know,” Alistair broke in. “Few relish meeting darkspawn up close. I know I don’t. Know this: All Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here.” Another piece of the puzzle fell into place for Daylen.

“You see, ser knight?” Daveth joked. “We might die, but we’ll be warned about it first.”

Jory didn’t look any more confident for knowing. “That is…reassuring?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m here to make this easy, however,” Alistair said. “So let’s get a move on.”

The group moved farther into the Wilds, and Daylen spotted the flower the kennel master had asked him to look for. Gathering as much as he could, Daylen tucked the samples into his satchel.

“The pup?” Alistair asked as Daylen carefully put the samples away. Daylen nodded. “Good. Would hate to see that dog get put down.”

“I still don’t think we should be out here right now,” Jory blurted out as they found the rest of the wounded man’s patrol.

Daylen ignored Jory’s panicky chattering, looking around. “Men, I don’t think we’re alone,” he said quietly. “Keep your eyes open.”

Alistair’s head snapped around. “He’s right. Darkspawn, that way.” Daveth nocked an arrow and Jory’s greatsword cleared its scabbard easily.

Daylen’s eyes widened as he saw a group of darkspawn charging down a hill. Jory gasped, Daveth blasphemed, and Alistair drew his sword, falling into a defensive position. “Time to prove yourselves, men,” he warned.

Jory easily batted aside a hurlock’s strike, before slicing through its simple armor with a heavy blow from his greatsword. Bracing the blade, he cracked a genlock in the head with the pommel, a sickening crunch coming from the creature’s skull as it fractured. Daveth put a pair of arrows through the genlock’s neck, taking it down for good.

Daylen, meanwhile, was frozen in terror. “Daylen, _move_!” Alistair yelled, blocking a genlock archer’s arrow with his shield. “Anytime now would be good!”

The mage shook himself, drawing his staff and freezing the genlock with a burst of elemental frost. Weaving another spell, he let the magic flow and felt a steady drain on his mana. “I’ve enchanted your weapons,” he called. “Elemental frost.”

“I see it,” Alistair replied as Daveth put an arrow through the genlock archer’s face. “I think that’s all of them. I’ve brought some flasks.” Drawing a skinning knife, he sliced open the neck of one of the darkspawn, draining some blood into the flask.

“Maker’s breath!” Jory explained as they saw the blood hissing and bubbling in the flask.

“Agreed,” Daylen said. “Got another flask?” Alistair handed one over, and Daylen began filling it. "So, Alistair," Daylen began as he capped the flask. "What happens after we go through the Joining?"

"You become Wardens," Alistair replied.

"Cute," Daylen said. "I meant what's in store for us?"

"Well, you'd have to ask Duncan about that," Alistair said.

"Right, because he's been so forthcoming with information," Daylen muttered.

"There's quite a bit of secrecy involved with our order, out of necessity," Alistair said defensively. "But at a guess, you'll be fighting alongside the other Wardens in the battle tonight. Assuming that the Archdemon shows itself, we'll kill it."

"And if the Archdemon doesn't show?" Daveth asked.

"I don't know," Alistair admitted. "That's really Duncan's decision."

"Duncan's?" Jory asked. "Not the king's?"

"We're not technically the king's subjects," Alistair said, clearly uneasy. "Wardens renounce all ties, national and familial." Jory looked distinctly uncomfortable, but said nothing.

"Can't say I know much about strategy or tactics," Daylen said, "but it sounds like the entire point of ending a Blight is an assassination strike."

"That's not inaccurate," Alistair said. "Of course, considering that an Archdemon is a giant bleeding dragon, killing it is no easy task."

"I can imagine. But I don't expect that the Archdemon is going to walk up and let us get a shot at it," Daylen said. "Maybe if you asked nicely..."

"Of course!" Alistair laughed. "All this time we've been fighting the darkspawn, when we could have simply asked them nicely to go away!"

"That's me," Daylen said proudly. "Innovating new and simple ways to end worldwide threats."

"Tell you what, you go up to a hurlock and ask it to leave, and you tell me how that goes for you," Daveth snarked.

The group crested the hill, and Alistair held up a hand. “Wait,” he said quietly. “There’s another group of darkspawn ahead.”

Daylen peeked over the edge, seeing a group of darkspawn milling around. A wicked grin spread across Daylen’s face. “Say, Daveth. You got any pitch or naphtha on you?”

“I always carry a flask, yes,” Daveth replied. “What you got in mind?”

“Can you dip an arrow in it and light it?”

“Yes, but it’s less effective than you’d think,” Daveth warned.

“You don’t have to kill with it, just hit the target I’m going to give you,” Daylen said. Daveth pulled a scrap of cloth from his pocket and tied it around the shaft of an arrow, dribbling some pitch on the rag. Alistair offered a set of flint and steel, and the arrow blazed to life.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Daveth said, pulling back on his bow’s drawstring.

Daylen twirled his staff, lobbing a hefty blob of conjured grease into the midst of the darkspawn. The grease splattered, and several of the creatures fell to the ground, while others recoiled from the attack. “Now!” He called, and Daveth let the arrow fly. As the arrow impacted, the grease caught fire. The creatures screamed and flailed about, slipping and sliding on the grease. Daveth snickered at the sight, and Daylen hooked an arm around his shoulders, grinning as the darkspawn burned. “It’s the simple things in life you treasure.”[2]

“You people worry me,” Alistair said. “But good job, very creative.”

As the blaze died out, the group approached the burn mark. Alistair kicked over one of the charred corpses, prodding it with his sword. “This group won’t do for blood,” he announced. “We’ll have to find more.”

“Bound to be more between here and those treaties,” Daylen said. “Daveth, can you get this chest open?”

“Sure, I can give it a try,” the rogue replied, gingerly picking a darkspawn dagger out of the ash and jamming it between the chest’s hinge and lid. A swift blow from his boot snapped the hinge off, and he repeated it with the other hinge, before working the chest’s lid off.

“You seem to have some experience with this sort of thing,” Daylen said, sorting through the contents. An amulet went into his pocket, a shortbow was tossed to Jory, who slung it over his back, and a field journal had a quick perusal before being tucked into his satchel.

Daveth shrugged. “I grew up in a village about a day’s trip to the east. Little blot you wouldn’t even find on a map. Haven’t been back in years. I struck out for the city as soon as I could outrun my pa. I’ve been in Denerim for what, six years now? Never liked it much, but there’s more purses there than anywhere else.”

“You’re a cutpurse?” Daylen asked.

“And a pickpocket, thank you very much,” Daveth replied archly. “Or was, anyhow. Who’d ever guess I’d end up a Grey Warden?”

“I’ve got some skill in those fields myself,” Daylen admitted. “How’d they get you? With a big net, or recruited out of prison?”

“I found them,” Daveth said. “Cut Duncan’s purse while he was standing in a crowd. Old bugger can run, but the garrison caught me first. Now, I’m a wanted man in Denerim, you see, so they were going to string me up right there. But Duncan stopped them. Invoked the Right of Conscription. I gave the garrison the finger while I was walking away. Don’t know why Duncan wants someone like me. But he says finesse is important, and that I’m fast with a blade. You bet your boots I am.” He paused a moment. “Besides, it beats getting strung up.”

“I can imagine,” Daylen replied dryly. “Let’s keep moving, shall we?”

Another group of darkspawn fell to the group, between blades, arrows, and a handful of Daylen’s more utilitarian primal spells. “Jory, you drain this one,” Alistair ordered, tossing the man a flask. “Daylen, you and Daveth keep an eye out.”

“Got it,” Daylen replied, spotting a group of darkspawn fighting a pack of wolves. “Ooh, look!” He leaned over to speak to Daveth. “I’ll give you two to one on the wolves.”

“Ten coppers says the wolves win,” Daveth murmured.

“Deal,” Daylen said, shaking hands with him. As Jory handed the filled flask back to Alistair with a distasteful look on his face, Daylen felt a prickling on the back of his neck. Looking around, he saw nobody despite the feeling of being watched.

“Blast,” Daveth groused as the last wolf fell to a darkspawn’s blade. “Oh well.” He counted out the coins. “Here you are.”

“Great,” Daylen said. “Now can I have the rest of my money back?” Daveth gave him a sheepish grin and handed him back his coin purse. “Points for audacity, though.”

“Let’s move,” Alistair called. The group headed for the pack of dead wolves. Daveth and Daylen took down the two remaining genlocks at range, and the rogue knelt next to one of the bodies, filling a flask with blood.

Daylen was prodding a corpse with his staff. “Uh, Alistair? This one’s human.”

“So it is,” Alistair replied, leaning over the body. “He’s not a soldier. See if there’s anything you can use to identify him.”

Daylen patted down the corpse, finding a sheaf of papers stuffed into a pocket. “It’s a will,” he announced after a quick perusal. “That missionary’s note we found, Rigby? This is Rigby.” He looked at the badly-mauled body. “Or it was, I suppose.” Folding it up, Daylen slid it into his satchel. “His wife is in Redcliffe, and he left a lockbox back at his camp.”

“We should recover it,” Jory declared. “It is only proper.”

“Agreed,” Daylen said. “Small payment for a dead husband.” The group quickly backtracked to the camp, digging up the lockbox, before heading deeper into the Wilds, taking a different route. Passing some old ruins, Daylen sighed as he saw several corpses hanging from a half-ruined arch. “Well, that’s pleasant.”

“Oi!” Daveth called. “I think there’s something over here!”

Five minutes later, Daveth gave the mage a sheepish look. “Sorry about this,” he said, as Daylen healed the bite marks on his leg.

“Something over here,” Daylen mocked as he helped the archer to his feet. “Yes, there _was_ something. Wolves. Lots of wolves. Next time, keep it to yourself!”

“Darkspawn nearby,” Alistair sighed.

A fireball nearly blew the entire group off their feet. “Bugger me,” Daylen groaned, sitting up. “They’ve got mages?” Grabbing his singed staff off the ground, he thrust it into the air, and a burst of frost froze the emissary solid. Jory charged, bringing his greatsword down in a shattering blow. The rest of the darkspawn fell in short order, and Alistair peered into the distance.

“I think I see the tower,” he said. “Hard to tell, but it’s too large to be a hill.” The only trouble the group encountered on the way up the hill was a handful of darkspawn stragglers, along with a hurlock alpha that nearly brained Jory before Daylen froze it and Alistair ran it through. “I think that’s all of them,” he said, yanking his sword free. His brows furrowed as he noticed Daylen breathing heavily. “Daylen, are you hurt?”

“That last scrap took a bit out of me,” Daylen replied. “Ran out of mana. I just need a moment.” He caught his breath a few moments later and hit the group with a rejuvenation spell, bringing fresh strength to everyone’s limbs.

“This definitely is the tower,” Alistair said as they reached the structure. “But where is that chest?”

Daylen knelt next to a pile of rotted wood. “I think this may have been it,” Daylen said. “No sign of any treaties.”

Alistair groaned. “Wonderful. The seal on that should have kept them from being removed!”

“Alistair, these treaties must have been here for at least a couple of centuries, and that’s assuming they were placed when Arland was king,” Daylen replied, standing up and dusting his hands off. “No normal magical seal can last that long without someone feeding a little magic into it every so often, especially in a place like this.” He looked around again, feeling a prickling on the back of his neck again. “The Veil seems pretty thick around here, so the seal would wear off even faster.”

“What do you mean by ‘normal’ magical seal?” Jory asked.

Daylen sighed. “The Tevinters have devised seals that can last for decades or even centuries. The issue is you typically have to power them with a pretty hefty blood sacrifice.” Jory recoiled as if Daylen had just waved a snake in his face. “I have no idea how to do that sort of thing, but there are documented records of the Tevinters doing just that. Now they say the Wardens do whatever they have to do to end a Blight, but I doubt that they’d use blood magic to protect a handful of scrolls.”

“Well, well, what have we here?” The quartet turned. A svelte, exotic-looking young woman with long black hair and large eyes was approaching them. Her robes looked to be assembled from scraps of clothing, adorned with glossy feathers and colored stones. “Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?” She crossed her arms, raising her chin slightly. “What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?”

Daylen scratched his beard, considering the question. “Well, the two aren’t really exclusive,” he mused. “Both, I suppose. The Grey Wardens once owned this tower.”

“‘Tis a tower no longer,” she scoffed, circling around the group. “The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse. I have watched your progress for some time. ‘Where do they go,’ I wondered, ‘why are they here?’” She looked out over the Wilds, her back to Daylen. “And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair murmured. “She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

“Yes,” Alistair replied flatly. “Swooping is bad.”

“She’s not Chasind,” Daylen said. “Robes are the wrong style, and the speech patterns are all wrong. Besides, if they were going to kill us, they’d have just taken us down with archers from cover, not sent in one unarmored woman to talk to us. Those aren’t Chasind tactics.”

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is!” Daveth hissed. “She’ll turn us into toads!”

“Now _that_ seems more likely,” Daylen replied. “Well, the Witch of the Wilds part, not the toads part. I’ve never seen a spell that can turn someone into a toad.”

“Witch of the Wilds?” Morrigan sighed. “Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?” She eyed Daylen. “You there, handsome lad. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized.”

“Civilized, eh?” Daylen shrugged. “Certainly. I am Daylen Amell. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Now _that_ is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds,” she replied. “You may call me Morrigan.” Daylen nodded, and she continued. “Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?”

“Here no longer?” Alistair echoed. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of sneaky witch-thief!”

“How very eloquent,” Morrigan replied dryly. “How does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily, it seems,” Alistair growled. “Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.”

“I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened.”

“Um…Alistair, she’s right,” Daylen admitted. “She clearly doesn’t have them on her person.” He eyed her up and down. “Where would she put them?” Raising his voice, he spoke to Morrigan. “If not you, then who removed them?”

“‘Twas my mother, in fact.”

“Your mother?” Daylen echoed, before shrugging and deciding to play along. “Would you take us to her?”

“There is a sensible request,” Morrigan replied. “I like you.”

“I’d be careful,” Alistair warned. “First it’s ‘I like you,’ but then _zap!_ Frog time.”

“What _is_ it with you people and assuming that mages are going to turn you into frogs?” Daylen asked. “I’ve only heard rumors of shapeshifting using magic, and that’s only a mage shifting their own form!”

“She’ll put us all in the pot, she will,” Daveth protested weakly. “Just you watch.”

“If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’d be a nice change,” Jory quipped.

“ _Now_ you find a sense of humor?” Daylen asked. He shook his head. “Please, Morrigan, lead on.”

“Follow me, then,” she replied.

—ROTG—

The group followed a narrow path that led between a pair of hills, revealing a hut nestled away. “Andraste’s arse, you must know this area well,” Daylen said, shaking out a damp boot from where he’d stepped in a puddle. “I don’t think I could find this place with a map!”

“I grew up in these Wilds,” Morrigan said. “‘Tis no more foreign to me than your home is to you.” An elderly woman exited the hut, and Morrigan spoke again. “Greetings, Mother. I bring before you four Grey Wardens who-”

“I see them girl,” the crone interrupted. “Mmm. Much as I expected.”

“Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?” Alistair asked skeptically.

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe,” the woman snapped. “Shut one’s eyes or open one’s arms wide, either way, one’s a fool!”

Daveth had remained panicky the entire way there. “She’s a witch, I tell you! We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

“Quiet, Daveth!” Jory urged. “If she’s really a witch, do you want to make her mad?”

“There is a smart lad,” the witch in question commented. “Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will.” Her eyes flicked over to Daylen. “And what of you? Do you possess a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as the others do?”

“Not sure what to believe, actually,” Daylen admitted.

“A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies,” she said. “Be always aware…or is it oblivious? I can never remember. So much about you is uncertain…and yet I believe. Do I? Why, it seems I do!”

“So this is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?” Alistair asked.

“Witch of the Wilds, eh?” she laughed. “Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it! Oh, how she dances under the moon!”

Daylen ignored the urge to ask what she wore during those dancing sessions.[3]

“They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother,” Morrigan said, exasperated.

“True,” her mother allowed. “They came for their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these.”

“Told you,” Daylen crowed.

“You…oh,” Alistair said. “You protected them?”

“And why not?” the crone sniffed. “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize!”

Daylen accepted the scrolls, carefully stowing them in his satchel. “Thank you for returning them.”

“Such manners!” the crone remarked. “Always in the last place you look. Like stockings!” She waved a hand. “Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for!”

“Time for you to go, then,” Morrigan said happily.

“Do not be ridiculous, girl,” the crone snapped. “These are your guests.”

“Oh, very well,” Morrigan sighed. “I will show you out of the woods. Follow me.”

—ROTG—

It was twilight before the group got back to the camp at Ostagar. They grabbed a quick meal from the mess, Daylen hocked as much of the recovered equipment and goods they had found as he could, and after passing the harvested flower off to the kennel master, the group returned to Duncan’s post at the fire.

“So, you return from the Wilds,” Duncan said. “Have you been successful?”

Daylen bit back the retort that they would probably still be out in the Wilds had they not found the treaties and blood yet. “We have.”

“Good,” Duncan replied. “I’ve had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you’ve retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.”

“And what if we have second thoughts?” Daylen asked, thinking of Jory.

Duncan’s face turned hard. “Let me be very clear on that point. _You are not volunteers_. Whether you were conscripted or recruited, you were chosen because you are needed. There is no turning back now. You must gather your courage for what comes next.”

“Courage?” Jory echoed. “How much danger are we in?”

“I will not lie,” Duncan said. “We Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.”

“You’re saying this ritual can kill us?” Daylen asked. “That’s great news, that is.”

“As could any darkspawn you might face in battle,” Duncan retorted. “You would not have been chosen, however, if I did not think you had a chance to survive.”

“Let’s go, then,” Daveth said. I’m anxious to see this Joining now.”

“I agree,” Jory seconded. “Let’s have it done.”

“Then let us begin,” Duncan murmured. “Alistair, take them to the old temple.”

—ROTG—

_The Grey Wardens_

_The first Blight had already raged for 90 years. The world was in chaos. A god had risen, twisted and corrupted. The remaining gods of Tevinter were silent, withdrawn. What writing we have recovered from those times is filled with despair, for everyone believed, from the greatest archons to the lowliest slaves, that the world was coming to an end._

_At Weisshaupt fortress in the desolate Anderfels, a meeting transpired. Soldiers of the Imperium, seasoned veterans who had known nothing their entire lifetimes except hopeless war, came together. When they left Weisshaupt, they had renounced their oaths to the Imperium. They were soldiers no longer: They were the Grey Wardens._

_The Wardens began an aggressive campaign against the Blight, striking back against the darkspawn, reclaiming lands given up for lost. The Blight was far from over, but their victories brought notice, and soon they received aid from every nation in Thedas._

_They grew in number as well as reputation. Finally, in the year 992 of the Tevinter Imperium, upon the Silent Plains, they met the Archdemon Dumat in battle. A third of all the armies of northern Thedas were lost to the fighting, but Dumat fell and the darkspawn fled back underground._

_Even that was not the end._

_The Imperium once revered seven gods: Dumat, Zazikel, Toth, Andoral, Razikale, Lusacan, and Urthemiel. Four have risen as Archdemons. The Grey Wardens have kept watch through the ages, well aware that peace is fleeting, and that their war continues until the last of the dragon-gods is gone._

_\--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Assassin's Creed. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 Galaxy Quest. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3 With any luck, nothing but a smile. [ return to text ]
> 
> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	3. The Joining

_Lake Calenhad  
The waters of Lake Calenhad are steeped in legends. The Avvar people say that it was once the site of Belenas, the mountain which stood at the center of the world, from which Korth the Mountain Father surveyed the earth and sky. But it was destroyed in the battle between Korth and the serpent Nathramar, leaving only a vast crater behind. When the Lady of the Skies saw that Belenas was gone, she wept, and her tears filled the crater, making the lake._

_The Tevinters believed that the waters of Lake Calenhad were blessed by Razikale, god of mysteries, and that those who drank from them were granted special insights. This was why they built the great tower on an island in the middle of the lake, hoping the powers of the lake would aid their magical research._

_But most of us know the legend of King Calenhad, which gives the place its name. It is said that Calenhad Theirin spent a year and a day in the Tower of the Magi. Each day, he drew a single cup full of water from the lake and carried it to the Formari at the top of the tower. By magic, each cup of water was forged into a single ring of the mail armor the Circle gave to Calenhad. In that armor, made from the lifeblood of the land itself, no blade could strike him, no arrow pierce him, so long as he stood on Fereldan soil._

_\--From Thedas: Myths and Legends, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

—ROTG—

Jory’s boots were beginning to wear a track in the stone floor. “The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it.”

It was beginning to wear on Daveth. “Are you blubbering again?”

“Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?”

Daveth rolled his eyes. “Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you.”

“Calm down,” Daylen said soothingly. “Nothing we can do about it now. I’m not any happier about this than you, but we’re in this situation, so let’s do our best about it.”

“I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me…” he shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Jory, did you not know anything about the Wardens besides the association with the word ‘glory’ when you were recruited?” Daylen snapped. “They renounce all ties. _All_ ties. Titles, organizational memberships, familial ties. You leave _everything_ behind when you become a Warden. I’m no longer a Circle mage, you’re no longer a knight of Redcliffe. We’re Wardens now.”

“Would you have come if they’d warned you?” Daveth asked. “Maybe that’s why they don’t. The Wardens do what they must, right?”

“Including sacrificing us?” Jory challenged.

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight,” Daveth shot back.

“You make a good point,” Daylen admitted. “The alternative is Thedas being a smoking, Blighted ruin. A couple lives don’t seem too huge a cost, even if it’s mine.”

“You saw those darkspawn, ser knight,” Daveth went on. “Wouldn’t you die to protect your pretty wife from them?”

Jory looked stricken. “I…”

“Maybe you’ll die,” Daveth pressed. “Maybe we’ll all die. If nobody stops the darkspawn, we’ll die for sure.”

“I’ve just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade,” Jory said weakly.

Duncan entered the temple before Daylen or Daveth could respond. “At last we come to the Joining. The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was then that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

Daylen’s jaw dropped as several puzzle pieces clicked into place, and Jory paled. “We’re going to drink the blood of those…those creatures?”

“As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. _This_ is the source of our power and our victory,” Duncan explained.

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint,” Alistair explained. “We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it slay the Archdemon.”

“Those who survive?” Daylen repeated. “Sorry, hung up on the _survive_ part there.”

“Not all who drink the blood will survive,” Duncan said quietly. “And those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay.”

“Not to mention I think an awful lot of people would get antsy if they saw you mucking about with blood,” Daylen muttered.

“We speak only a few words prior to the Joining,” Duncan said, either not hearing or ignoring Daylen. “But these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?”

Alistair bowed his head. “Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows were we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day, we shall join you.”

Duncan picked up the chalice. Daylen caught a whiff of lyrium from the chalice, along with the scent of blood and something that smelled deeply wrong. “Daveth, step forward,” the senior Warden said, holding it out.

Daveth looked at the chalice, before drinking deeply, and passing it back to Duncan. A few moments later, he doubled over, wheezing and choking, before falling to the ground. Daylen stepped forward, healing magic swirling around his hands, but Alistair stopped him.

“He is beyond our help now,” Alistair said quietly.

“Can’t we do something?”

“He is _beyond help_ ,” Alistair repeated. Daylen watched in horror as Daveth coughed several times, and the mage could distinctly hear gurgling as Daveth fell still.

“Maker’s breath!” Jory gasped.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan murmured. “Step forward, Jory.”

Jory’s sword rasped as it cleared its scabbard, and the man backed up, holding the blade out in front of him defensively. “But I have a wife. A child! Had I known!”

“There is no turning back,” Duncan insisted, setting the chalice down.

“No!” Jory cried, brandishing his sword. “You ask too much! There is no glory in this!”

Duncan drew a wickedly curved dagger, and parried two wild strikes from Jory before stabbing him in the gut. “I am sorry,” he whispered, letting the corpse drop. He closed the dead man’s eyes, before standing. “But the Joining is not yet complete.” He picked up the chalice again, turning to Daylen. “You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good.” Daylen took the chalice with shaking hands. “From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.”

“Here goes nothing,” Daylen muttered, drinking.

It tasted like the inside of a revenant’s helmet, and burned like pure hellfire. Daylen heard screaming but couldn’t tell whether it was him or someone else. He felt something hit him in the face and smelled dirt before realizing he had fallen to the ground.

The world went black, and then he saw it.

Dark.

Big.

_Staring right at him._

A giant dragon, a deep purple in color, its snout curled upwards with teeth protruding from its jaw.

It roared at him.

—ROTG—

Daylen opened his eyes. His head felt like a Templar’s whacking post, and he scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. His voice came out as a pained croak. “Ow.”

“It is finished,” Duncan said. “Welcome.”

“Two more deaths,” Alistair sighed. “In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was…horrible. I’m glad at least one of you made it through.”

“How do you feel?” Duncan asked.

“Nothing you said prepared me in any way for that,” Daylen said, sitting up. “And I still can’t believe you killed Jory.”

“He could not be allowed to leave with what he had witnessed, and he would not drink,” Duncan said. “As soon as he drew his blade, his fate was sealed.” He sighed. “Such is what it takes to be a Grey Warden.”

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair asked. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.”

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do,” Duncan explained. “That and many other things can be explained in the months to come.”

“Before I forget,” Alistair mentioned. “There is one last part to your Joining.” He held out a pendant. “We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us…of those who didn’t make it this far.”

“Take some time,” Duncan said. “When you are ready, I’d like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king. He is discussing strategy for the upcoming battle. I am not sure why he has requested your presence. The meeting is to the west, down the stairs. Please attend as soon as you are able.”

—ROTG—

“Loghain, my decision is final. I _will_ stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault,” Cailan was saying as Daylen walked up.

“You risk too much, Cailan!” Loghain snapped. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all.”

Loghain’s face twisted. “I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!”

“It’s not a ‘fool notion.’ Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past, and you will remember who is king!”

Loghain touched his gauntleted fingertips to his forehead. “How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!”

“Then our current forces will have to suffice, won’t they?” Cailan said archly. “Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

“They are, your Majesty,” Duncan replied.

“And this is the recruit I met earlier?” Cailan asked, looking to Daylen. “I understand congratulations are in order.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Daylen mumbled, trying to ignore the pounding in his head.

“Every Grey Warden is needed now,” Cailan said. “You should be honored to join their ranks.”

Loghain grimaced. “Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to _reality_.”

Privately, Daylen agreed with Loghain, but was well aware the decision was nowhere near in his hands. Cailan rolled his eyes. “Fine, speak your strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then?”

“You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover,” Loghain supplied.

“To flank the darkspawn, I remember,” Cailan said. “This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who shall light the beacon?”

“I have a few men stationed there,” Loghain said. “It may be dangerous.”

“Then we should send our best,” Cailan interrupted. “Send Alistair and the new Grey Warden to make sure it’s done.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow at the sudden decision. “I’ll do my best, your Majesty.”

“You rely on these Grey Wardens too much,” Loghain groused. “Is that truly wise?”

“Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain!” Cailan snapped. “Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they’re from.”

“Your Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the Archdemon appearing,” Duncan chimed in.

“There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds,” Loghain replied.

“Isn’t that what your men are here for, Duncan?” Cailan asked pointedly.

“I…” Duncan paused. “Yes, your Majesty.”

A man in mage robes stepped forward, and Daylen recognized him after a moment. Uldred, leader of the Libertarians at the Circle. “Your Majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of Magi-”

A woman in a Chantry robe cut him off. “We will _not_ trust any lives to your spells, mage!” She hissed. “Save them for the darkspawn!”

“Enough!” Loghain shouted. “This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon.”

“Thank you, Loghain,” Cailan said warmly. “I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!”

“Yes, Cailan,” Loghain replied halfheartedly. “A glorious moment for us all.”

“Well, that was a sodding mess,” Daylen said as he and Duncan walked back to the fire. “Why was there a Chantry priestess at a war council?”

“The Chantry feels it needs to have a representative, especially when mages are involved,” Duncan replied delicately.

“Then why not send a Templar? You know, someone capable of making informed decisions about something combat-related? A Knight-Captain or even a Knight-Commander would have fit right in. Whoever that lady was, she had no place being there. And Uldred seemed upset by being shouted down by her. Last thing you want to do is piss off someone who can throw fireballs.”

“You know Uldred?” Duncan asked.

“Yeah, met him once or twice at the Circle,” Daylen said. “Bit of an arse, really. Never taught any apprentices and seemed like a right tosser whenever any discussions came up.” Daylen paused a moment. “The Wardens are gambling a lot on this battle, aren’t they.”

“More than you realize,” Duncan said softly.

“I realize quite a bit,” Daylen replied. “We’re expected to stop the horde cold here. Frankly, I don’t see how it can be done, not with the numbers I’ve seen. But that’s only part of it. Not only is just about every Grey Warden in the country going to be on the front lines – where the heaviest combat is going to be – they’re also going to be expected to protect the king, who has put himself quite literally in harm’s way. Further, two more members of the order – junior members, mind you – are expected to perform a crucial task during the battle.” He looked at Duncan. “Everything that the Ferelden Grey Wardens have is staked on this one fight. Unless this plan goes off without a hitch, our reputation, which is already crap to begin with, is going to get us kicked out of the country.” He raised an eyebrow at the Warden-Commander. “Did I miss anything?”

“You are…observant,” Duncan allowed. “It is one of the reasons I recruited you.”

“Speaking of which, Duncan,” Daylen asked quietly, looking at the fire. “Why did you pick me?”

“You were the best candidate,” Duncan said simply.

Daylen scoffed. “Don’t give me that. There are other mages in the tower, ones that are older, smarter, more efficient with their mana. I’m a mage who is literally less than two weeks past his Harrowing and know a handful of combat spells. Sure, I’ve got power, but I lack finesse. What made you pick me?”

“It was that or watch you executed for a mistake that was not your fault,” Duncan said.

“Oh, come now, Irving never would have let that happen.” Daylen said. “I know you had selected me before the incident with Jowan. Probably even before my Harrowing! Now level with me, Duncan. You’ve withheld an awful lot of information since I met you. This, I know you can tell me.  _Why did you pick me_?”

“Daylen, how old are you?”

“Twenty,” Daylen said. “What’s your point?”

“In time, you will learn that sometimes, there is no clear answer. Sometimes, you come across a person and something draws you to them. You cannot explain it. You cannot question it. You can only trust that feeling and hope that it will work.”

“And that’s why you picked me?”

“You may not have been the smartest mage at the Circle, or the eldest, or even the strongest. But there is something about you that I feel may be vital in ending this Blight.”

“And you have no idea what that is?”

“I have my theories, as you do,” Duncan said. “But I feel that when the answer to your question arises, you will no longer need to ask.”

“Duncan…What are we walking into, here?”

“A life of pain and sacrifice for which you shall most likely not be well-rewarded or long-remembered. But we are Grey Wardens. That is our task in life. We realize that the foundations of society are fragile against the encroaching tide of darkspawn, and we must be the light against the darkness, the protectors of our civilization. We are the architects of our actions. We do whatever we must –  _whatever_ that may be – and we must live with their consequences, whether glorious or tragic, for the alternative is the destruction of our world.”

Alistair appeared out of the darkness. “The other Wardens are moving. What are you orders, Duncan?”

“You heard the plan,” Duncan said. “You and Alistair will go to the Tower of Ishal and ensure the beacon is lit.”

“What?” Alistair squawked. “I won’t be in the battle?”

“This is by the king’s personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain’s men won’t know when to charge.”

“So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch,” Alistair said. “Just in case, right?”

“I agree with Alistair,” Daylen objected. “It does seem a little odd that he’d allocate two Grey Wardens to go and light a fire. Especially when he has, you know, an entire army to draw from.”

“That is not your choice,” Duncan admonished. “If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens _will be there_. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn, exciting or no.”

“I get it, I get it,” Alistair said. “Just so you know. If the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I’m drawing the line. Darkspawn or no.”

“I don’t know,” Daylen mused. “That could be a great distraction. And I actually can dance the Remigold, so…”[1]

“You and me, shimmying down the darkspawn line? Sure, we could kill them while they roll around laughing.”

Duncan gave a long-suffering sigh. “The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king’s camp, the way we came when we arrived. You’ll need to cross the gorge and head through the gate and up to the tower entrance. From the top, you’ll overlook the entire valley.”

“Where will you be?” Daylen asked.

“I will be fighting beside the king with the rest of the Grey Wardens. Again, at his request. We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for.”

“How much time do we have?” Daylen followed up.

“The battle is about to begin,” Duncan said. “Once I leave, move quickly. You’ll have less than an hour.”

Daylen nodded. “And what if our friend the Archdemon appears?”

“We soil our drawers, that’s what,” Alistair said.

“If it does, leave it to us,” Duncan ordered. “I want no heroics from either of you. After you light the beacon, stay with the teyrn’s men and guard the tower. If you are needed, we will send word.”

“Don’t worry, if the Archdemon shows up, I’ll be too busy changing my smalls to take a shot at it.” He thought for a moment, before continuing. “That’s all my questions. Alistair, you have any questions?”

“Can I have a raise?”

Duncan gave him a look that made it clear this wasn't the first time Alistair had asked. “No.”

“No further questions,” Alistair said meekly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Then I must join the others. From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worthy of that title.”

“Duncan,” Alistair said suddenly as the older man turned to leave. “May the Maker watch over you.”

Duncan looked at Alistair fondly. “May He watch over us all.”

—ROTG—

Daylen sniggered.

“This isn’t funny,” Alistair groused.

“Sorry,” Daylen said, clearly not sorry. “But this rain is making you rattle.”

“It’s the splintmail,” Alistair grumbled. The two looked over the edge of the bridge, and Daylen fought a brief bout of vertigo. “Look, it’s about to begin.”

“I see archers, hounds, the troops in defensive positions…” Daylen looked closer. “The obligatory priestess with the censer…” He pointed. “There’s Duncan and Cailan.”

“You can see that far?” Alistair asked.

“Not clearly, but there’s only one person on the field wearing gold armor,” Daylen replied. “He’s a bit noticeable.” He looked out at the approaching mist and his jaw dropped. “Oh…oh…ooooh _shit_.”

“That’s a lot of darkspawn,” Alistair gulped. A hurlock alpha roared, and the horde charged.

“Here we go,” Daylen breathed.

“ _Archers!_ ” came the call. Arrows blazed to life, rags soaked in flammable liquids tied around their shafts. The archers released a volley, and the first several rows of darkspawn fell, arrows piercing and igniting flesh and armor.

 _“Hounds!_ ” Over two dozen mabari wardogs leapt from their positions, charging the onrushing horde. Genlocks and hurlocks fell, their throats ripped out by leaping mabari, and Alistair and Daylen winced as an unfortunate hound found itself spitted on a hurlock’s sword.

“ _FOR FERELDEN!_ ”

“Wait, wait, why are they breaking from their positions?” Daylen asked.

“No time,” Alistair said. “Debate strategy later. We have to move!” The two flinched as a boulder flew by, taking out one of the ruined towers across the gorge. Daylen stumbled forward as an archer shoved past him. "Let's get across the bridge and light that beacon!" Alistair cried.

The two began running across the bridge, but Daylen pulled up to a halt halfway across. "Oh,  _fuck me_ ," he said, looking out at the horde. "Alistair…"

"I know," the warrior replied. "All the more reason to get that beacon lit! Let's move!" Daylen remained where he was, staring at the horde with undisguised terror in his eyes. "Daylen,  _move_!" A ballista at the other end of the bridge exploded, and Alistair spotted a group of ogres flinging boulders at the siege weapons, including a rock already in the air. " _Get down_!" Alistair tackled Daylen to the ground as the nearest ballista was reduced to flying shrapnel. The splinters pinged off his armor, and Alistair got to his feet, pulling Daylen up. "Come on, come on! Snap out of it!"

The two sprinted across the bridge, ducking flying boulders, and made for the ramp leading up to the tower’s entrance. Two soldiers ran out, spattered with blood. “You! You’re Grey Wardens, aren’t you? The tower…it’s been taken!”

“What are you talking about, man?” Alistair asked. “Taken how?”

“The Darkspawn came up through the lower chambers! They’re everywhere! Most of our men are dead!”

“Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!” Alistair declared.

“What, just the four of us?” Daylen asked.

“That’s our job,” Alistair argued.

Daylen opened his mouth and closed it under his companion’s glare. “Fine. Time to go to work, then.” He pointed at the two soldiers. “You, and you, with us. Try not to die.”

The group fought up the hill, finding soldiers alone or in pairs and outnumbered at least two to one by darkspawn. They supplied help where possible, but most of the soldiers were beyond assistance by the time Alistair and Daylen got to them.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair gasped as they entered the tower. “What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn’t supposed to be any resistance here!”

“You could try telling them they’re in the wrong place,” Daylen offered.

“Right, because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll laugh about this later. At any rate, we need to hurry. Teyrn Loghain will be waiting for the signal!”

The first room the group ran into, Daylen accidentally set off a grease trap. He resolved to be more alert as the quartet slipped and slid around, and arrows pinged off the ground around them. The others were on their feet first, and Alistair beheaded a genlock as the creature charged him. Daylen froze an emissary, and one of the soldiers put a crossbow bolt through its neck, shattering it.

The next half hour passed quickly as the group slogged their way up the tower, fighting packs of darkspawn in close quarters. Multiple times, Daylen called the others back and flooded a doorway with a torrent of lightning or blasts of frost, disabling groups of darkspawn so the others could finish them off. More than once, Daylen had to help someone back to their feet, dropping an elfroot-based healing potion in their laps so they could get back in the fight while he provided cover with elemental bursts.

“That switch!” Alistair hollered, pushing back through his shield against a particularly aggressive hurlock. “It’ll release the hounds in those cages!” Daylen sprinted over, sliding under a hurlock’s wild swing and tripping it with his staff on the way, and yanked the lever, setting the dogs loose even as he slammed the end of his staff into the hurlock’s skull.

The hounds ran free, baying as they did. They began ripping into the darkspawn nearby, and Daylen channeled lightning through his staff and into the hurlock’s head. The darkspawn thrashed, bellowing in pain as lightning coursed through it. It finally went still, the body smoldering.

“Up the stairs!” Alistair shouted, knocking a hurlock’s sword aside and putting his own blade through the creature’s sternum. Twisting the blade and pulling it free, the Warden caught a genlock’s arrow on his shield. Daylen fired a burst of arcane energy, the bolt zipping over Alistair’s shoulder and setting the genlock’s head on fire.

Daylen swapped his staff to his other hand, tugging one of the soldiers to his feet. “Stick with it, man, we’re almost there.”

The group stormed up the last set of stairs, and immediately skidded to a stop.

“What in blazes is that?” one of the soldiers whispered.

“An ogre,” Alistair said. “Um…bollocks.” The creature stood, blood dribbling from its mouth. The group could see a half-eaten corpse on the ground next to it.

“I am so glad I went to the privy before the battle,” Daylen squeaked.

The ogre charged, and Daylen drew his staff, lobbing a blob of grease in a panic. The majority of the grease missed, but the ogre caught some of it, slipping and falling.

“Charge!” Alistair shouted.

“Wait!” Daylen said, holding out a hand. “Don’t get too close, you’ll slip on the grease.” He launched a torrent of lightning, and the ogre thrashed, before standing and bulling forwards again. “Crap. Now charge!” Drawing deeper on his mana, Daylen unleashed a heavy blast of frost, freezing the ogre. The warriors got in close around the ogre, hacking and slashing at its legs and whatever other body parts they could reach. Daylen sagged slightly, rooting through his satchel for a lyrium potion and downing it.

One of the soldiers flew past him, backhanded by the ogre, blood flying from a split lip. Daylen cursed, trotting after him as Alistair and the tower guard drew the ogre’s attention. Kneeling next to the fallen man, Daylen bit his lip as he saw the extent of the man’s injuries.

“Am I going to be all right?” The man asked.

“Oh, sure,” Daylen lied, quickly healing what he could and numbing the rest. “You don’t get out of this mess that easily!” Pulling the man to his feet, Daylen handed the soldier his sword back. “Come on.”  The man jogged back into the fight, lunging and stabbing the ogre in the hamstring. The beast bellowed, falling to one knee, before swatting the man across the room again. Daylen took a single look at the man’s head pointing the wrong direction and knew he was dead.

Alistair ducked another swipe from the ogre and leapt as it’s guard fell, stabbing his sword into the beast’s neck. The creature fell backwards, and Alistair rode it down, ripping his sword free and stabbing it into the ogre’s skull as it thrashed. “It’s dead,” he rasped, dismounting the corpse. “The beacon is over here! We’ve surely missed the signal…let’s light it quickly before it’s too late!”

Daylen limped over, lobbing a quick burst of fire into the pit. The signal fire caught, and the flames were funneled upwards by the architecture of the tower.

“We did it,” Daylen gasped. “I just hope we were in-” he grunted as several arrows thudded into his body. Staggering backwards, he bounced off a wall, desperately trying to call up some form of magic. A fireball manifested in his hand, and he lobbed it at the newcomer darkspawn, setting them alight even as he passed out.

—ROTG—

Elsewhere in the valley, Loghain and his second-in-command watched as the signal fire blossomed – far too late.

“Cauthrien. Sound the retreat,” Loghain ordered.

“But…what about the king? Should we not-”

Loghain grabbed her arm. “Do as I command,” he growled.

She glared at him a moment, before nodding and yanking her arm free. “Pull out! All of you, let’s move!” The troops obediently moved out, taking the vast majority of the army’s numbers with them.

—ROTG—

Duncan rolled off the ogre as it collapsed, and grimaced, feeling two of his ribs stabbing through the skin. Half his ribcage had been shattered when the ogre he had just killed had swatted him aside to get to King Cailan. Spotting the king lying on the ground nearby, he crawled over to him.

One look at the man told Duncan he was beyond help. Cailan's chest was crushed, the breastplate having done little against the ogre's mighty grip. Duncan patted the body down, finding a dagger sheathed at Cailan's side and drawing it. It was a simple spike of silverite, unadorned with a wrapped wire handle and a pair of Hale runes folded into it. Duncan staggered to his feet, ducking a swing from a hurlock alpha's battleaxe and spitting a genlock through the skull. Grabbing the dead darkspawn's waraxe, Duncan caved in the hurlock's helmet with a single stroke, before flinging the axe overhand and splitting an emissary's head open. Another hurlock swung a sword at him, and Duncan slithered to one side, ignoring the screaming in his side and stabbing the hurlock in the neck, relieving the corpse of its sword as the body fell.

The next few minutes were a frenzy of flashing blades, the howls of the horde, and the screams of the wounded and dying as Duncan made his final stand. Hurlocks, genlocks, and shrieks fell in droves before the weapons of the Warden-Commander. But one man - even a Grey Warden - can only do so much in the face of a horde. A genlock archer's arrow punched through his pauldron, and the dagger dropped from his hand. A hurlock parried two of his strikes and left a deep gash on Duncan's thigh even as the looted sword took the hurlock's head off. A backhand from an ogre fractured his jaw and spun him around, the broken ribs he had sustained puncturing his lung. Duncan dropped the sword, coughing hard as blood flooded his lung, and scrabbled across the ground, finding the dropped dagger. The ogre grabbed him, holding him a mere foot away from its face and roaring.

Duncan's final conscious action was to ram the silverite dagger into the ogre's eye up to the hilt.

—ROTG—

Pain.

That was the first thing that Daylen noticed. Just about everything hurt. On the other hand, pain meant he was still alive. Considering that the last thing he remembered was darkspawn using him as target practice, still being amongst the living was a surprise.

Daylen sat up, noticing he’d been stripped. “Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased,” he heard. He looked over, seeing the woman he had met at the Warden outpost walking towards him.

He opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a dry croak. The woman rolled her eyes and passed him a waterskin. He drank deeply, before coughing. “Thank you. I remember you. You’re the girl from the Wilds. Morrigan.” He scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “Where are we? What happened?”

“We are in the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds. You are welcome, by the way.” She checked under the bandage on his shoulder and nodded, before removing the dressing. Daylen probed the knitted skin and nodded approvingly. “How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?”

“I remember being overwhelmed by the darkspawn,” Daylen said, trying to remember what happened. “You said your mother rescued me from the tower?”

“Mother managed to save you and your friend, though ‘twas a close call. What is important is that you both live.” Morrigan paused, before continuing more slowly and gravely. “The man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned, were massacred. Your friend…he is not taking it well.”

Daylen looked up. “My friend? Alistair’s alive?”

“The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before, yes. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.”

Daylen swung his legs out of the bed, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. “Why does your mother want to see me?”

“I do not know. She rarely tells me her plans.”

Daylen checked himself over. “Were my injuries severe?”

“Yes, but I expect you shall be fine,” Morrigan replied. “The darkspawn did nothing Mother could not heal.”

“What about Alistair?” Daylen asked. “Is he all right?”

“He is…as you are,” Morrigan said. “I suppose it would be unkind to say he is being childish.”

“Very unkind,” Daylen said flatly. “Those were his friends.”

“And you think they would encourage his blubbering? If so, they are not the sort of Grey Wardens the legends note.”

Daylen was forced to concede the point. “I have some questions, if you don’t mind.”

“I do not mind.” She pulled up the room’s single chair. “Take your time.”

“There were an awful lot of darkspawn in that tower,” Daylen said. “How did your mother manage to rescue us?”

“She turned into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from atop the tower, one in each talon.” At Daylen’s skeptical look, she shrugged. “If you do not believe that tale, I suggest you ask Mother yourself. She may even tell you.”

Daylen opened his mouth, and then closed it. “Leads right into my next question. Why did she save us?”

“I wonder at that myself, but she tells me nothing. Perhaps you were the only ones she could reach. _I_ would have rescued your king. A king would be worth a much higher ransom than you.”

Daylen nodded, taking another drink. “A king versus two rookie Grey Wardens? Oh, much, much higher.”

“What a sensible attitude,” Morrigan said warmly. “Mother is seldom sensible, however.”

“Are we safe here?” Daylen asked, standing up. “Where are the darkspawn?”

“We are safe, for the moment. Mother’s magic keeps the darkspawn away. Once you leave, ‘tis uncertain what will happen. The horde has moved on, so you might avoid it.” She pointed to a chest at the foot of the bed, and Daylen found his equipment inside.

Tugging on his robes, Daylen kept talking. “Are there any survivors besides us?”

“Only stragglers that are long gone. You would not want to see what is happening in that valley now.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Daylen said, shaking his head as he buckled on the rest of his equipment. “What I can’t understand is why did Teyrn Loghain abandon the king?”

“I do not know who this Loghain even is. Perhaps ask Mother of it.”

“Hm?” Daylen looked up. “Oh. Sorry. I think I’ve asked enough questions.”

“I agree. ‘Tis time you speak with Mother, then be on your way.”

“Thank you for helping me, Morrigan.”

“I…” Morrigan paused. “You are welcome, though Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.”

Daylen stepped outside, squinting against the light. “See?” He heard. “Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man.”

“You…you’re alive!” Alistair looked even more relieved than shocked at Daylen being alive and upright. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

“I’m not, thanks to Morrigan’s mother,” Daylen said.

“This doesn’t seem real,” Alistair breathed. “If it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother, we’d be dead on top of that tower.”

“Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad,” the crone said.

“I didn’t mean…” Alistair paused. “But what do we call you? You never told us your name.”

She snorted. “Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.”

“The Flemeth?” Alistair asked. “From the legends? Daveth was right – you’re the Witch of the Wilds, aren’t you?”

“And what does that mean?” Flemeth asked, amused. “I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?”

“I’ll say,” Daylen said. “Thank you for that, by the way. I’m alive and kicking because of you.” He paused. “But why _did_ you save us?”

“Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn. It has always been the Grey Wardens’ duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?”

“Course not,” Daylen scoffed. “But we aren’t exactly numerous. Most of them were in that valley.”

“But we _were_ fighting the darkspawn! The king had nearly defeated them! Why would Loghain do this?”

“Now _that_ is a good question,” Flemeth said. “Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an army he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat.”

“The Archdemon,” Alistair said quietly.

“We need to contact the rest of the Grey Wardens,” Daylen said. “You and me can’t do this alone.”

“I don’t know how to contact them, or even if they’re on their way,” Alistair replied. “The king and Duncan had already sent for reinforcements, but I expect Loghain has taken steps to stop them. We need to do something now.”

“We need an army,” Daylen said.

“We could go to Arl Eamon, at Castle Redcliffe,” Alistair suggested. “He wasn’t at Ostagar, and he’s a good man, an honorable man. He would believe us.”

“Loghain was an honorable man too,” Daylen pointed out. “And one arl’s forces won’t be enough.”

“You have more at your disposal than you think,” Flemeth pointed out.

“Of course!” Alistair realized. “The treaties! Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They’re obligated to help us during a Blight!”

Flemeth smiled. Daylen tried not to recoil at the sight. “I may be old, but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else…this sounds like an army to me.”

Alistair looked unsure. “So can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and these other places and…build an army?”

“Why not?” Daylen shrugged. “Isn’t that what Grey Wardens do?” He paused a moment. “And it’s either that or skip town to Antiva to go whoring, and I don’t think that’s really an option.”[2]

Flemeth sighed. “So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?”

“Yes,” Daylen said, sounding far more resolved than he actually was. “Thank you for everything, Flemeth.”

“No, no, thank _you_ ,” Flemeth said. “You are the Grey Wardens here, not I. Now, before you go, there is yet one more thing I can offer you.”

“The stew is bubbling, Mother dear,” Morrigan said, joining the group. “Shall we have two guests for the eve, or none?”

“The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl,” Flemeth said matter-of-factly. “And you will be joining them.”

“Such a shame – _what_?” Morrigan goggled at her mother.

“You heard me, girl,” Flemeth chuckled. “The last time I looked, you had ears!”

Daylen nodded, never one to turn down help. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Morrigan gave him an ugly look. “Have I no say in this?”

“You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance.” She looked to Daylen and Alistair. “As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

“Very well, we’ll take her along with us.”

“Not to…look a gift horse in the mouth, but won’t this add to our problems?” Alistair asked. “Out of the Wilds, she’s an apostate.”

Flemeth raised an eyebrow. “If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower.”

“Um…Alistair,” Daylen said quietly. “You do remember I’m a mage too, right?”

“Point taken,” Alistair sighed.

“Mother…” Morrigan paused. “This is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready.”

“You must be ready,” Flemeth said. “Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan. Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I.”

Morrigan looked to be fighting the urge to argue more. “I understand.”

Flemeth nodded, before affixing Daylen with a pointed stare. “And you, Wardens? Do you understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world. I do this because you _must_ succeed.”

“She won’t come to harm with us while I’m still breathing,” Daylen promised.

“Allow me to get my things, if you please,” Morrigan said. A few minutes later, she was back, a satchel at her side. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens. I suggest a village north of the Wilds as our first destination. ‘Tis not far, and you will find much that you need there. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide. The choice is yours.”

“No, I prefer you speak your mind,” Daylen said.

Flemeth laughed. “Oh, you will regret saying that.”

“Dear, sweet mother, you are so kind to cast me out like this,” Morrigan said, her tone cloying. “How fondly I shall remember this moment.”

“Well, I always said if you want something done, do it yourself, or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards.”

“Well, not to interrupt this charming family moment,” Daylen said, “but we really must be going. Flemeth, thank you again for all that you’ve done for us. Morrigan, if you’d be so kind, could you lead us on out of here? With me in the lead we’d wind up in Nevarra.”

“Do try to have fun, dear,” Flemeth called as the group walked away from the hut. “Try not to die!”

“Charming woman,” Daylen mused. “Is she really your mother?”

“‘Twas she who raised me and thus I consider her my mother, born from her womb or not. ‘Tis what you meant, yes?”

“Close enough, yes,” Daylen said.

—ROTG—

“And I expect each of you to supply these men,” Loghain said, addressing the gathered nobles. “We must rebuild what was lost at Ostagar, and quickly. There are those who would take advantage of our weakened state if we let them. We must defeat this darkspawn incursion, but we must do so sensibly and without hesitation!”

Bann Teagan stepped forward. Unlike everyone else in the hall except Loghain, he was wearing armor. “Your lordship, if I might speak?” Loghain nodded, and Teagan went on. “You have declared yourself Queen Anora’s regent, and claim that we must unite under your banner for our own good.” He paused a moment. “But what of the army lost at Ostagar? Your withdrawal was most…fortuitous.” There were gasps and murmurs at his words, but Loghain remained stonefaced.[3]

“Everything I have done has been to secure Ferelden’s independence,” Loghain snapped. “I have not shirked my duty to the throne, and neither will any of you!”

“The Bannorn will not bow to you simply because you demand it!” Teagan declared.

“Understand this,” Loghain said, glaring around the room. “I will brook no threat to this nation…from you, or anyone!” Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the room, and the assembled nobles began trailing out.

Teagan turned to leave, but hesitated when he heard a voice calling his name. Turning back, he spotted Queen Anora, and immediately tried to make his case. “Your Majesty. Your father risks civil war. If Eamon were here…”

“Bann Teagan, my father is doing what is best,” Anora said coldly.

“Did he also do what was best for your husband, your Majesty?” Teagan asked pointedly. Not waiting for a response, he turned and left.

—ROTG—

 “…And since the Chantry controls the lyrium trade with the dwarves, well,” Alistair shrugged. “I’m sure you can put two and two together.”

“That’s horrible,” Daylen said. “I can’t believe that they would do that.” He thought about it for a moment, before shaking his head. “Actually, no, it does make sense.”

“Well, they do it,” Alistair replied. “And they feel perfectly justified. You don’t need lyrium in order to learn Templar talents. Lyrium just makes Templar talents more effective. Or so I was told. Maybe it doesn’t even do that. The Chantry doesn’t usually let their Templars get away, either, so they can spread their secrets. I’m a bit of an exception. Lucky me.”

“Well, I’m glad to be working with you,” Daylen said, shading his eyes and looking into the distance. “Is that…is that a dog?”

“Looks like,” Alistair replied.

“Hey, pup,” Daylen said, kneeling in front of the mabari. Before he could pet the dog, it turned around, growling. A pack of darkspawn were approaching, led by a hurlock alpha. The alpha drew a hand across its throat as it drew its sword. “Well, time to earn our pay,” Daylen said, drawing his staff. A quickly lobbed blob of grease knocked the entire group flat, and Daylen followed it up with a torrent of lightning that ended several hurlocks and wounded the alpha. Morrigan added her own burst of lightning, and Alistair moved in close, finishing a wounded hurlock with an economical stab.

The remaining few darkspawn in the band fell quickly between the two mages, and Daylen turned to the mabari, who was happily wagging his tail and panting. “I think this is the mabari I helped cure back at Ostagar,” Daylen said, taking a closer look at the dog. “Surprised he made it this far.” Scratching the dog behind the ears, he grinned at the dog. “Those darkspawn didn’t hurt you, boy, did they?”

The dog licked his face and gave a happy “whuff!”

“I think he was out there looking for you,” Alistair said. “He’s…chosen you. Mabari are like that, they call it imprinting.”

“Does this mean we’re going to have this mangy beast following us around now?” Morrigan asked archly. “Wonderful.”

“He’s not mangy,” Alistair scoffed.

“No, he’s not,” Daylen agreed. “He’s a big sweetheart. I’ve always wanted a dog like this. Maybe it’s meant to be.”

“Well, you have to name him something,” Alistair said. “Can’t go around calling him Dog.”

“Well, he’s a great big sweet lump,” Daylen said. “What are those pastries the Orlesians came up with?”

“Cupcakes?” Alistair asked. “You’re going to name a two hundred-pound warhound Cupcake?”

“Absolutely,” Daylen said. “You are Cupcake!”

“ _Whuff_!”

“What’s that, Cupcake?” Daylen asked. “Little Timmy fell down a well?” The dog snuffled, and Daylen nodded. “Oh, I’m sorry. You see something, boy?” The dog ran off, and Daylen knelt, nudging one of the darkspawn corpses over. “Huh. Do darkspawn trade or anything like that?”

“Not that I know of,” Alistair said. “Why?”

“Because I’m seeing coin and other valuables on these things,” Daylen reported. “Maybe they just like shiny objects.”

All in all, a handful of silvers and a couple of coppers were recovered from the bodies, by which time Cupcake had returned. Daylen gingerly took the slightly dirty pair of silk pantaloons, noticing the dog’s expectant look. “A-ha! One can never have too many pairs of pantaloons,” he said, pasting a smile on his face. The dog ran off again, and Daylen shrugged. “I guess he can find us. Come on, then.”

It wasn’t long after that that Cupcake returned, this time with a slightly damaged cake in his jaws. “Cake! Excellent! Good boy!” Daylen took the cake, noting that the teeth marks were confined to one side. “You just…found this, then? There isn’t a small child crying over a lost cake?”

—ROTG—

“Wake up, gentlemen!” A man in leathers called as the group walked down the highway. “More travelers to attend to.” He pointed to Daylen. “I’d guess that fellow is the leader.”

The man next to him shook his head. Daylen eyed him. The second man looked barely capable of tying his boots without assistance. Then he opened his mouth and confirmed Daylen’s suspicions. “Er…they don’t look like them others, you know. Uh…maybe we should just let these ones pass!”

“Nonsense!” the leader said. “Greetings, travelers!”

“Highwaymen,” Alistair muttered. “Preying on those fleeing the darkspawn, I suppose.”

“They are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan sighed. “I say we teach them a lesson.”

“Now is that any way to greet someone?” The leader chided. “A simple ten silvers and you’re free to move on.”

“You’re toll collectors, then?” Daylen asked skeptically.

“Indeed! For the upkeep of the Imperial Highway!” the man said. “It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”

“You’re fixing the highway?” Daylen fought the urge to smile at the implausibility of the man’s lie. “I think not.”

“Nothing much gets past you, I see,” the leader shrugged.

“It’s not really a toll,” the denser one added. “We’re just robbing you, see?”

“Do shut up!” the leader hissed. “Even a genlock would have understood that.”

“Well forget it,” Daylen said. “I’m not paying.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m pleased to hear that,” the leader sad mournfully. “We have rules, you know.”

“Right!” The bonehead chimed in. “We get to ransack your corpse, then. Those are the rules!”

Daylen leaned forward slightly, his face hard. “Do you really want to fight a Grey Warden?”

The dumb-looking one blanched. “Did he say he’s a Grey Warden? Them ones killed the king!”

“Wait, whatnow?” Alistair yelped.

“Traitors to Ferelden, I hear,” the leader said. “Teyrn Loghain put quite a bounty on any who are found.”

“But…aren’t them Grey Wardens good?” the dumb one said. “I mean, really good? Good enough to kill a king?”

“You have a point,” the leader conceded. “Well, let’s forget about the toll. We’ll just leave you to your darkspawn-fighting, king-killing ways.”

Usually, Daylen would have let it go at that. But he was tired, his body ached, and he was already feeling the urge to slap someone. “You know, the Grey Wardens could use a donation.”

“You don’t say?” the leader said nervously.

“They is really good, boss, remember.” The knucklehead said.

“Well, yes,” the leader agreed, clearly realizing Daylen had him over the proverbial barrel. “Twenty silvers? That’s all we’ve…collected today.”

Daylen had seen the level of refugees moving along the highway and knew that the man was stiffing him. “Not enough, I’m afraid.”

“And just when we had things settled,” the leader groaned. He gasped as the head of Daylen’s staff rammed into his chest, falling flat on his back. Daylen opened up with a blast of frost, freezing almost the entire pack of men solid. The dumb one was the only bandit still mobile, and he drew his axes, only for Alistair to smash him in the face with his shield and stab him under the armpit. The man dropped, blood spurting from a severed artery in his arm and gasping from a punctured lung. Morrigan unleashed a torrent of lightning on the frozen bandits, and most of them dropped dead, ice crackling under the assault. The smell of burning hair spread, and Daylen set a boot on the leader’s neck.

“All right!” The man squeaked. “We surrender! We-we-we’re just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all!”

“You picked the wrong target,” Daylen snapped. “I mean, really, man.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” the man frantically said as Daylen applied a little more pressure. “We should have been more careful. I’m sorry!”

“Hand over everything you’ve stolen,” Daylen said. “I’ll redistribute it to the refugees.”

“Yes! Yes, of course,” the man pleaded. He ripped a coin purse from his belt, throwing it to Alistair. “The coins we collected are right there, just over a hundred silvers! The rest is in the chests we brought! I swear!”

“Good,” Daylen growled. “I’m turning you into the authorities.”

The man began thrashing. “There aren’t any! Just the Templars, and they’ll execute me!”

“They’ll do what they must,” Daylen said. “Come with me.”

“I’m not going down without a fight!” The man bellowed. Wriggling around, he kicked Daylen in the groin, sending the Warden staggering away, clutching his bits. The man scrabbled for his weapon, only for Alistair’s blade to cleave open the front of his neck. Blood sprayed, and the man collapsed, gurgling.

“You all right there, Daylen?” Alistair asked.

Daylen replied by throwing up, wheezing as his head spun. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Daylen took a shaky breath. “Ow.”

“That puts it rather succinctly,” Morrigan said. “I must remember that trick.”

Daylen shook his head, pumping healing magic into his groin to numb the pain as he staggered over to the railing. Forcing a pained smile, he nodded to Alistair. “Let’s look through this mess, see if there’s anything to salvage.”

A few minute’s perusal found that there was little of use to the group, although Daylen retrieved a locket and a note from the body of a dead man wearing Templar armor and a handful of silvers from the stash the bandits had made. Their loot secure, the group looked out at the village. “Well, there it is,” Alistair said. “Lothering. Pretty as a painting.”

“Ah, so you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you?” Morrigan asked. “Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?”

Alistair scowled at her. “Is my being upset so hard to understand? Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?”

“Before or after I stopped laughing?” Morrigan replied.

Daylen coughed out a laugh, before groaning. “Oh, please, don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

“Is a twisted sense of humor just a mage thing?” Alistair asked. “Never mind.”

“To be fair,” Daylen said, trying to stand up properly. “You have been very quiet, Alistair.”

“Yes, I know,” Alistair admitted. “I was just…thinking.”

“No wonder it took so long, then,” Morrigan said dryly.

The warrior glared at her. “Oh, I get it. This is the part where we’re shocked to discover how you’ve never had a friend your entire life.”

“I can be friendly when I desire to,” Morrigan replied. “Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“Morrigan, please,” Daylen said. The other mage huffed and rolled her eyes, but fell silent.

“Anyway,” Alistair went on. “I thought we should talk about where we intend to go, first.”

Daylen finally managed to stand up straight. “You have some thoughts on that point, I take it.”

“We have to use these treaties,” Alistair said. “We’ll be able to ask for assistance, maybe even raise an army. There are three main groups that we have treaties for: the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar, and the Circle of Magi. I also think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first.”

“You’re the senior Warden here. Why are you leaving it up to me?”

“Well, I don’t know where we should go,” Alistair admitted. “I’ll do whatever you decide. Arl Eamon is a good man, but I don’t know for sure he’s where we should go. I’m not going to fight about it.”

“I think that we need more Wardens on this, first of all,” Daylen said. “Is there a way to contact the Grey Wardens?”

“Short of leaving Ferelden to seek them out, the only place to send word to would be Weisshaupt Fortress, and that’s thousands of miles away.”

“All right, yeah, not an option,” Daylen conceded. “Then we need to find the people we have treaties for. Dalish, dwarves, mages, Arl Eamon. I take it we would find Eamon at Redcliffe?”

“That’s the seat of power in the arling, yes,” Alistair confirmed. “The Dalish elves would be the hardest to find. If we head eastward towards the Brecelian Forest, we should hear word of one of the clans that wanders that area. Hopefully, they will still be there.”

Daylen nodded. “They might be our first stop. I’m worried about the mages, though. Won’t the Circle of Magi do what the Chantry says?”

“Technically the Circle of Magi is independent. We don’t know that the Chantry won’t support us, of course. If we speak to the First Enchanter, he should see that his responsibility to the Grey Wardens supersedes anything the Chantry – or even Teyrn Loghain – might have to say about it.”

“And the dwarves?” Daylen asked. “Orzammar, I suppose.”

“Right,” Alistair said. “But we would need to speak to their king, and that means heading west into the Frostback Mountains, which won’t be easy.”

Daylen nodded, considering the issue. “Morrigan? Any thoughts?”

“Go after your enemy directly,” she replied. “Find this man, Loghain, and kill him. The rest of this business with the treaties can then be done in safety.”

“The direct approach, eh?” Daylen stroked his beard. “Certainly tempting, I _would_ like to beat his arse for hanging us out to dry, but getting to him might be an issue.”

Alistair shrugged. “We can go to Denerim, but somehow I suspect that they’re not going to just let us walk around. Only a suspicion, of course.”

“I doubt he’d see a direct attack coming, but I don’t know if ‘murder of the regent’ is a good thing to add to our list of crimes, especially if we’re already apparently up on regicide and treason.” Daylen sighed. “Well, I don’t need any more directions.”

“Then you have a plan?” Alistair asked.

“I have something that might grow into something that could be tentatively called a plan, yes,” Daylen replied. “I’m not sure any of this is a good idea.”

“I’m not sure I like any of it either, but we don’t have a lot of choice in the matter,” Alistair said.

“Of course you have a choice,” Morrigan scoffed. “You could run and forget about it all. Let the darkspawn do as they wish until other Grey Wardens come. If they come.”

“Like I said,” Daylen suggested. “Skip town to Antiva to go whoring.”

“That’s what you call a choice?” Alistair snorted.

“It may not be a _good_ choice, but it’s a choice nevertheless. We all choose our path, even when it seems there is only one direction we should go.”

“Let’s get moving,” Daylen said. “I can feel that damned horde getting closer.”

As they walked through the refugee camp, Daylen felt a growing sense of dread. People were laying down, trying to gain a few moment’s rest before either moving on or trying to wait it out. Dirty, downcast faces stared at him as he strode through the camp.

Morrigan spoke up. “I have a wonder, Alistair, if you will indulge me.”

Alistair sighed. “Do I have a choice?”

“Of the two of you that remain, are you not the senior Grey Warden here? I find it curious that you allow another to lead, while you follow.”

“You find that curious, do you?”

“In fact, you defer to a new recruit. Is this a policy of the Grey Wardens? Or simply a personal one?”

Alistair glared at her. “What do you want to hear? That I prefer to follow? I do.”

“You sound so very defensive.”

“Couldn’t you crawl into a bush somewhere and die? That would be great, thanks.”

Daylen sighed, stopped, and turned around. “Are you two going to be like this the whole time?”

The two looked at each other a moment, before nodding. “Yes, probably,” Alistair said.

The mage groaned. “This is going to be a long trip.”

“You there!” A Templar called. Daylen flinched, before the Templar went on. “If you’re looking for safe shelter, I’ll warn you: there’s none to be found.”

“Eh?” Daylen asked, still cringing.

The Templar was either dense or willfully oblivious to the fact that he was looking at not one, but two mages. “Move on if you can. Lothering’s lost.”

“What do you mean?” Daylen asked.

“We’ve had refugees streaming from the south for the last two days. The chantry and tavern are full to bursting. There simply isn’t enough food to go around, and we Templars can barely keep order. You’d be better off elsewhere, my friend.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Daylen replied, trying not to sweat too obviously. His heart was pounding and his face felt numb.

The Templar shrugged under the heavy plate. “Best of luck wherever you might go.”

Daylen strode forward purposely, before cutting to the left and stepping behind a house, leaning against the wall and scrubbing his forehead with his sleeve.

“Are you all right?” Alistair asked.

“You get raised in a prison where every bloke with a sunburst on his chest is just looking for a reason to put a sword through your skull, you get a little nervous around Templars,” Daylen explained. “I’ll be all right. I just need a moment.” A few minutes later, Daylen stepped out, looking pale but composed. “Let’s go.”

“Greetings to you, ser,” an elf standing with his family said as they passed by. “If it…isn’t too much to ask, might you spare some bread? Or anything?”

“No food to be had,” Daylen apologized. “But…” He thought about what they had reclaimed from the bandits. “I can spare fifty silvers.”

The elf coughed in surprise, and Daylen pressed the coin into his hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “That’s very kind.”

“Bless you!” his wife exclaimed. “This will help us a great deal!”

“Thank you again for helping us,” the male elf said. “It’s been difficult since we were robbed.”

“You were robbed?” Daylen echoed.

“Wasn’t everyone?” The elf spat. “Those bandits have jumped every wagon and caravan in sight of Lothering.”

“Oh, those men,” Daylen looked down. “I, uh…met those bandits. We had a slight…disagreement. They suffered complications from my strenuous argument.” The elf looked at him blankly. “They’re dead now.”

“You…killed them?” the elf asked.

“That’s wonderful news!” his wife said. “Perhaps our belongings are still there!”

“I can’t thank you enough, friend. Even if we don’t get everything back, it’s good to know others will be safe.”

Daylen nodded, and the family headed for the highway, looking to reclaim their valuables. “Right, let’s find a pub or something and plan our next move,” he said, before stopping short. “Oh, now what.”

A merchant was arguing with a Chantry sister. “Back off!  I have the right to charge what I wish!”

“You profit from their misfortune!” The woman scolded. “I should have the Templars give away everything in your carts!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” The man sneered. “Any of you step too close to my goods, and I’ll-”

“It’s so nice to see everyone working together in a crisis,” Alistair said. “Warms the heart.”

“Ho!” The merchant replied. “You there! You look able! Would you care to make a tiny profit helping a beleaguered businessman?”

“Why?” Daylen asked. “Is your profiteering ruffling some feathers?”

“You could say that, yes,” The man admitted.

“The nerve of these people!” Alistair mocked.

“He is charging outlandish prices for things people desperately need!” The sister broke in. “Their blood is filling his pockets!”

“‘Tis only survival of the fittest,” Morrigan said. “All of these cretins would do the same in his shoes, given the chance.”

“I have limited supplies,” the man objected. “The people decide what those supplies are worth to them.”

The sister threw up her hands. “You bought most of your wares from these very people last week! Now they flee for their lives, and you want to talk business?”

The merchant sighed. “Look, stranger, I’ve a hundred silvers if you’ll drive this rabble off,” he pointed to the sister, “starting with that priest. I’m an honest merchant, nothing more.”

“You don’t think you’re even being a little unscrupulous?” Daylen asked.

“Would it help these folks if they could buy no goods at all?”

“They spend their very last coin because they are desperate,” the sister interrupted again. “And this man preys on them as surely as the bandits outside the city!”

Daylen shrugged. “Well, I killed _them_ , so…”

“Bah!” The man said. “I’m not arguing anymore! Drive off this woman and get yer hundred silvers. Otherwise, I’m taking my wagon and leaving!”

Daylen held up a hand. “I think you can compromise and still make a profit, no?”

“Maker’s breath!” The man sighed. “Sometimes it’s truly not worth operating this far south!”

“Just charge what you would have before this tragedy,” the sister urged.

“Fine, yes, just stop complaining,” the merchant rolled his eyes. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“So…we have come to solve every squabble in the village, personally?” Morrigan asked. “My, but the darkspawn will be impressed.”

“Considering we’re going to be buying from him, this is relevant,” Daylen pointed out.

“Thank you for your generous assistance,” the sister said. “May the Maker watch over your path.”

Daylen shrugged, turning to the merchant. “Want to do some honest business?” Some coin rapidly changed hands as Daylen bought some reagents and whatever health poultices the man had, selling off the assorted items he had gathered since Ostagar. Checking his rapidly shrinking stock of lyrium potions, Daylen shook his head. “I’m going to have to ration these. Five basic lyrium potions are _not_ going to sustain me through the Blight.”

“Lyrium trade is rather tightly controlled,” Alistair said. “As you well know. We may not be able to restock for a while.”

“Wonderful,” Daylen groused. “Let’s find that pub.”

It was only when they entered Dane’s Refuge that things _really_ hit the fan.

—ROTG—

_Lothering  
In ancient times, Lothering was little more than a trading post that served the fortress of Ostagar to the south. Nowadays, it is larger, serving Redcliffe and the community of merchants and surface dwarves near Orzammar. Its location on the North Road gives it strategic value, so control of Lothering has historically been a matter of contention between the Southern Bannorn and the South Reach Arling. King Calenhad himself stepped in and awarded the town to South Reach in the Exalted Age, which has largely ended the feud, or at least the appearance of it._

\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1 Daylen has to lead, though.  [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 Although it would certainly change the tone of this story.  [ return to text ]
> 
> 3 That's right, bitch, we're calling you out! [ return to text ]


	4. Lothering

_Dogs in Ferelden  
I am frequently asked, during my travels in other lands, to explain the dogs omnipresent in Ferelden. Inevitably, I tell my foreign questioners that there are no more dogs in my homeland than in their own. In every civilized corner of Thedas, an astute observer will notice dogs employed in hunting game, keeping barns and storehouses free of vermin, herding livestock, guarding homes, and even used as beasts of burden in the mountains. It is simply that Fereldans show appreciation for the work that our dogs do. And perhaps the reason for that is tangled up in mythology._

_Hafter, the first man to be named teyrn, the hero who united our Alamarri ancestors to drive back the darkspawn of the second Blight, was reputed to be the son of a werewolf. Now, perhaps this was meant to be some comment on his temperament, or simply a way of making a great man even larger than life. But more than half the noble families of Ferelden claim to be descendants of Hafter, and consequently, many of our people believe they have some distant kinship with wolves. It is only good manners to be polite to one's kin._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

—ROTG—

As they entered the tavern, Daylen noticed several soldiers drinking. He briefly entertained the notion that the soldiers were friendly, until one of the soldiers looked over, and the man’s eyes narrowed in recognition.

“Well, look what we have here, men,” the soldier said, standing up. “I think we’ve just been blessed.”

“Uh-oh,” Alistair murmured. “Loghain’s men. This can’t be good.”

The soldier turned to the man next to him. “Didn’t we spend all morning asking about a fellow by this very description? And everyone said they hadn’t seen him?”

“It seems we were lied to,” the other soldier replied.

“Not really,” Daylen said. “We just got in. Can’t say I have any idea why you’re looking for me.”

An accented voice broke in. “Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble,” a redheaded woman said, a faint Orlesian accent audible. “These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge.” Daylen spied a dagger sheathed at the small of her back, and his eyes narrowed.

“They’re more than that,” the soldier snapped. “Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.”

“Let’s talk about this before things get out of hand,” Daylen said, holding up his hands and taking a step back.

“I doubt he would listen,” the sister replied, her hand closing around the handle of her dagger. “He blindly follows his master’s commands.”

“I am not the blind one!” The soldier barked. “I served at Ostagar, where the teyrn saved us from the Grey Wardens’ treachery! I serve him gladly!” He glared at Daylen, before speaking to the soldier next to him. “Enough talk. Take the Warden into custody. Kill the sister and anyone else that gets in your way.”

“Right!” The second soldier said cheerfully. “Let’s make this quick!”

“ _Damn_ ,” Daylen hissed, his hands still up. Clenching his fists, he unleashed a sustained blast of frost on the men in front of him, even as the sister’s hand lashed out, a soldier gurgling and clutching his throat as her dagger slashed it open. Alistair bulled forward, the point of his sword slipping between the splints of the man’s armor. Daylen kicked another soldier in the crotch as Morrigan grabbed the nearest soldier by the helmet, channeling lightning directly into the man’s skull. Blood spurted from the helmet’s eyeholes, and she dropped the twitching corpse as it began to smolder. The sister’s dagger opened another artery, and more blood splattered across the tavern floor as Alistair knocked the leader flat.

“Enough!” The soldier screamed, as Alistair’s sword pressed into his neck. “We surrender!”

“Good,” the Chantry sister said. “They’ve learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting, now.”

Daylen nodded to Alistair, who eased off the man’s neck. The soldier breathed deeply, only for Daylen’s boot to land on his chest. “Take a message to Loghain,” he growled.

“W-what do you want me to tell him?” The soldier squeaked.

“The Grey Wardens know what really happened at Ostagar. He’ll pay for what he’s done. We’re coming for him. And if he wants us dead, he’ll have to do better than this.”

“I’ll tell him,” The man babbled. “Right away. Now. Thank you!” He all but sprinted out of the tavern, and the Chantry sister nodded to Daylen.

“I apologize for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help,” she said.

“It’s all right,” Daylen said happily, dusting his hands off. “I was happy to save your life.”

“Save my life?” the woman asked indignantly. “I assure you I can handle myself!”

“You must, butting into others’ business all the time,” Daylen replied dryly. “That only really escalated when you got involved.”

“So now you know all about me?” The woman snapped. “We just met!”

“Well, we haven’t met at all, actually,” Daylen said. “But let’s see. From the accent, you were born and raised in Orlais, probably close to the nobility by the way you carry yourself. But you’re not a noble yourself or from a noble family. I’m guessing either your mother was a servant of an Orlesian noble or your father was a chevalier. Maybe both. From the way you fight, you’ve had some sort of training, and while a dagger isn’t your weapon of choice,” he looked around the blood-stained floors, “you certainly know how to use one. Why you’re out here,” he finished, looking at her, “is the only real question.” He paused a moment as the woman gave him a wary look. Her face said ‘innocent,’ but the bodies at her feet lessened the effect and her eyes were dark.

“Daylen,” Alistair said quietly. “ _How in the world do you know all that_?”

“One of the enchanters at the Kirkwall Circle used to be at the White Spire in Orlais. She taught me how to figure stuff like that out about people.” He looked to the redhead. “But as I said, we haven’t actually met.”

“Well, that can quickly be remedied,” she said brightly. Daylen blinked at the sudden change in her mood, and she spoke quickly. “Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering.”

Daylen nodded, suspicious at how quickly she was trying to change the subject. “I am Daylen. A pleasure.”

“Those men said you’re a Grey Warden. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do? I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get. That’s why I’m coming along.”

Daylen snorted. “I’m sorry, Sister, but you are _very_ mistaken.”

“Ah, I thought you might say that,” she replied. “But you see, the Maker wants me to join you.”

“Right…” Daylen said dryly. “I believe this is where I back away slowly.”

“I know that sounds absolutely insane, but it’s true!” The redhead stammered, clearly aware she wasn’t helping her case. That they were discussing this after killing several men, with the fresh and bleeding corpses at their feet, and a tavern full of already-terrified refugees watching them only made things worse. “I had a dream, a vision!”

Alistair shook his head. “More crazy? I thought we were all full up!”

“Look at the people here,” Leliana urged. “They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos will spread. The Maker doesn’t want this. What you do, what you are meant to do, is the Maker’s work. Let me help!”

“If the Maker doesn’t want this, he should have stepped in at Ostagar,” Daylen said bitterly. “I’m supposed to believe the Maker wanted all those people dead? I need more than prayers, I’m afraid.”

“I can fight,” she pleaded. “I can do more than fight. As you have guessed, I was not always a lay sister. I put aside that life when I came here, but now…if it is the Maker’s will, I will take it up again. Gladly. Please, let me help you.”

The others in the bar were still giving the group the eye, and Daylen realized he wasn’t going to win this argument. “Very well,” Daylen sighed. “I will not turn away help when it is offered.”

“Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought,” Morrigan mused.

“Thank you!” Leliana gushed. “I appreciate being given this chance. I will not let you down!”

“Anyone in here selling or buying goods?” Daylen called.

“Over ‘ere,” a man grunted. “If you’re here about food, take it up with that bleedin’ runt by the Chantry. I got other gear to sell. Name’s Barlin.”

Daylen eyed his inventory, before shaking his head. “No way I can afford this,” he said. “You know of any well-paying work in Lothering?”

“You know anything about poison?” the man asked bluntly.

“A bit,” Daylen bluffed. “What use have you got for poisons?”

“I’m looking to put traps on my land, make those darkspawn regret coming here,” Barlin replied. “Three flasks of poison ought to do it.”

“I’ll look into it,” Daylen promised.

The next couple hours passed quickly. The group helped out around the village for spare coin. Alistair used his rudimentary knowledge of traps to help out a rather skittish woman who wanted to defend her property. “I was learning to hunt food for the Wardens,” he explained. Morrigan’s knowledge of woodland poisons came in handy after they fought a pack of giant spiders and used their toxin glands to provide poisons for Barlin.

"Shall we next begin rescuing kittens from trees?" Morrigan asked acerbically as they picked up another handful of odd jobs.

"Depends," Daylen replied. "Is there coin in it? We have to pay for supplies somehow."

Daylen talked down a Chasind doomsayer who had escaped the destruction of his village. A dozen bandits went down to a fireball and some lightning from Daylen and Morrigan, and they salvaged a set of worn leathers for Leliana and a set of heavy chainmail.

“Oi, Alistair,” Daylen said, dragging a greatsword out from under the large man they had looted the chainmail from. “Can you use this?”

“I can,” Alistair replied hesitantly. “But I’m nowhere near as good with a two-handed sword as I am with using a sword and shield.”

“Fair enough,” Daylen mumbled. “Suppose it’ll be worth a few silvers. Looks to be in good condition.” Strapping the blade across his back, he looked over, spotting a giant man sitting in a cage and watching them. “And whaaaaat have we here?”

“You aren’t one of my captors,” the man in the cage rumbled.

“My, he’s a big one,” Daylen muttered.

“I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans,” he snapped. “Leave me in peace.”

“Other humans?” Daylen echoed. “What are you?”

“A prisoner,” he replied laconically. “I’m in a cage, am I not? I’ve been placed here by the Chantry.”

“The revered mother said he slaughtered an entire family,” Leliana said quietly. “Even the children.”

“It is as she says,” the prisoner confirmed. “I am Sten of the Beresaad – the vanguard – of the Qunari peoples.”

“A Qunari?” Daylen said. “Here? You’re far from home.”

“Indeed,” Sten said.

Daylen looked the giant over, noting the physique of a warrior. “I am Daylen. Pleased to meet you.”

“You mock me,” Sten growled. “Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. Though it matters little, now. I will die soon enough.”

“This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as easy prey for the darkspawn,” Morrigan said to Daylen. “If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.”

“Mercy?” Alistair scoffed. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

Morrigan smiled sweetly at the other Warden. “I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage.”

Alistair nodded. “Yes, _that’s_ what I would have expected.”

“I suggest you leave me to my fate,” Sten said.

“If you prefer that, I will, but I find myself in need of skilled help,” Daylen replied. “I have only vague knowledge of your people, but I am aware of the efficiency and skill of the Beresaad.”

“No doubt. What help do you seek?”

“I am sworn to the defend the land against the Blight,” Daylen said, feeling that unvarnished truth would carry him through with Sten.

Sten seemed to perk up at that. “The Blight? You are a Grey Warden, then?”

“Yes, I am. One of the last in Ferelden.”

“Surprising. My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens’ strength and skill…though I suppose not every legend is true.”

Daylen blinked. “I get the distinct feeling I’ve just been insulted. Would the revered mother let you free?”

“Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here.”

“To be left here to starve, or to be taken by the darkspawn…” Alistair shook his head. “No one deserves that, not even a murderer.”

“Well then, on to the Chantry,” Daylen said, a sour look on his face. “Where all the Templars will be.”

“You sound thrilled about that,” Alistair noted.

“We’re wanted men, we have two mages here, and we’re trying to recruit a known murderer,” Daylen replied. “The Templars may have bigger problems, but I couldn’t tell you what those might be.”

Daylen nodded to the Templar at the door of the Chantry before heading inside. Leliana offered a few words of comfort to some refugees clustered in a corner as Daylen and the others headed towards the altar.

“Yes?” A templar asked as they approached. “Who might you be?”

Daylen’s voice cracked as he started talking. “You can call me Daylen.”

“I am Ser Bryant, commander of Lothering’s remaining Templars. You don’t seem like the other refugees. Are you one of Arl Eamon’s knights?”

Daylen glanced down at his mage-style robes and the staff across his back and wondered if Bryant had had his eyes checked recently. “Do many of his knights come here?”

“Some have, in recent days,” Bryant replied. “Arl Eamon has fallen ill, and his knights are on a quest for the sacred urn filled with Andraste’s ashes, said to cure any malady. He must be very ill if they chase miracles as the only cure. One of the arl’s knights, Ser Donall, is here searching for fantasies while…” He paused, before frowning. “Never mind. Ask him if you care about this foolishness.”

“I’m hoping you can help me,” Daylen said, before deciding to throw caution to the winds. “I’m a Grey Warden.”

Bryant paused. “I…see. That is certainly worthy of notice.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Teyrn Loghain declared all Grey Wardens traitors, responsible for the king’s death. You know this, I hope?”

“He claimed _we’re_ responsible?” Daylen scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“And set a bounty on all who survived,” Bryant added. “I don’t believe the Grey Wardens would be as careless or malicious as the teyrn claims, but either way, there it is. It is best you not linger, though. Just…in case.”

Daylen nodded. “We weren’t planning on stay long. For the record, all but two of the Wardens were standing with the king on the front line. Whether that was his idea or Loghain’s, I don’t know. But Loghain abandoned us when the time came.”

“I find that somewhat easier to believe,” Bryant said slowly. “But again, you have been declared traitors. My ability to assist you is limited.”

Daylen nodded his understanding. “Is there any other help you can offer?”

“I cannot openly help you, I fear, but…here. Take this key.” He handed over a bronze key, worn with use. “It opens the large cabinet on the far wall. There is more there than we can carry when we evacuate, so take what you need.”

“Things seem very dire in the village,” Daylen remarked, tucking the key away.

“They are. With the bann having taken his men north, the village is left to its fate. We will evacuate as many as we can before the horde reaches us. I will stay as long as I am needed.”

“You may be one of the last out, then,” Daylen said. “The darkspawn are unchecked. I’m sure the other Wardens did some damage, but…” Daylen shook his head. “They’re going to come, sooner rather than later.”

Bryant looked less than encouraged at his words. “Can we stop this Blight?” he asked fearfully.

Daylen shrugged. “Simply put, stopping a Blight with two junior Wardens who haven't been in the position for more than six months at the most is impossible. We're going to do it anyway.”

“You certainly don't lack for confidence,” Bryant said.

“When you're all that's left, confidence is a great weapon. And right now we need all the weapons we can get. Lots of pointy things will help.” He gave the Templar a sad look. “Bryant, you're essentially the leader of this village now. If you have any regard for the lives of these people, you'll get them out of here, _fast_. That darkspawn horde isn't going to stop and smell the flowers. Neither should we.”

“Well put,” Bryant replied.

“Well then,” Daylen said. “Ser Bryant, thank you for the information, and your assistance.”

“I am sorry I could not do more,” the Templar said, extending a hand. Daylen took it, trying to disguise the shaking in his hands, and the group moved to the cabinet the Templar had indicated.

“Let’s see,” Daylen mumbled, sorting through the mess in the cabinet. “Some elfroot potions, and a couple of old rings.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I really expected to find. Have to wonder why these weren’t given to that lady helping the refugees.” He passed out the health potions, before turning to Leliana. “Any idea where we would find the revered mother?” Leliana pointed over his shoulder, and Daylen found the elderly lady sitting in a study off the main hall.

“Will you be making a donation to the chantry, my friend?” The priestess asked. “You look like you have salvaged more of value than most who make it here.”

Daylen blinked. “What would you use the money for?”

“Why, to buy food for the refugees, of course,” she said brightly.

“From who?” Daylen asked. “The only one in town who had any food left was that vendor outside, and he’s been picked clean.”

There was a brief, yet incredibly awkward silence as the revered mother stared at him. “What can I do for you, then?”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Daylen replied. “I need your help.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “A Grey Warden? Here? Oh, dear. You put me in a difficult position. You must know that Teyrn Loghain declared the Grey Wardens to be outlaws.”

“So I’ve heard,” Daylen sighed. “But it is _Loghain_ who betrayed the king.” He looked to Alistair. “Maybe we should get cards made. I’m getting tired of having to explain that to everyone.”

The revered mother scoffed. “Teyrn Loghain? That is as hard for me to believe as his condemnation of the Wardens. There is a price on your head. Lay low and I promise to keep your presence a secret. That is the best I can do.”

“You misunderstand me,” Daylen said. “We’re not staying here. We’re just passing through, but…” He shook his head. “I’m getting off topic. That giant Sten, the one in the cage. What’s his story?”

“We found him amongst the dead bodies of an entire family. When asked, he confessed to their murders, and did not resist as we put him in the cage. It might have been kinder to execute him, but I leave his fate to the Maker. Why does he interest you?”

“Is there any way I can convince you to release him?” Daylen asked.

“Then his next victims might count you and me as their murderers.”

“I was thinking you might release him into my custody. I could use someone of his talents. If nothing else, he’ll be off your hands.”

“And what do you say on this, Leliana? You know your friend better than I.”

Leliana looked distinctly uncomfortable. “These are…unusual times, your Reverence. With us, the qunari might do some good. I am sure of it, in fact.”

The revered mother sighed and nodded. “Were things not so desperate…very well, I trust you. Take these keys to his cage, and Maker watch over you.” Daylen noted that she handed the key to Leliana, not him.

“Thank you, your Reverence,” Leliana replied. “Your trust is not misplaced.”

“So what,” Daylen muttered as they walked away. “Was she just going to let the man starve in there if nobody else came along?”

“Presumably,” Alistair replied. “They don’t have the resources to move him with all the refugees, there’s no ruling authority to decide his fate legally, and…Ser Donall?” Alistair stopped in surprise, looking at a man examining a rack of books. “Is that you?”

The knight turned around, his heavy chainmail clinking lightly. “Alistair? By the Maker, how are you? I…I was certain you were dead!”

“Not yet,” Alistair said darkly. “No thanks to Teyrn Loghain.”

Donall shook his head. “If Arl Eamon were well, he’d set Loghain straight soon enough.”

Alistair scowled at the mention of the arl’s illness. “So you’re here looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, then?”

“I am, indeed. Andraste’s ashes are said to cure any illness. But I fear we are chasing a fable. With each day, my hope dims.”

“Can’t imagine why you’d look here, of all places,” Daylen said.

“Nothing I have found leads me to believe that this was anything more than a quest of desperation,” Donall admitted. “I expected to take advantage of the chantry’s library, in fact, but my skills are better suited to battle than chasing down tales. My mission takes priority. But I fear I shall be returning to Redcliffe with nothing to show for my efforts. It seems there is little here to help us, however. I intend to return to Redcliffe soon and tell the arlessa exactly that, once Ser Henric arrives.”

“Wait, Ser Henric?” Daylen asked, flashing back to one of the corpses on the road. “Who is he?”

“My fellow knight and traveling companion. He is delayed, though.”

“Henric,” Daylen said slowly. “Big man, blond hair, wears shiny Templar armor?”

“You’ve seen him?” Donall asked.

“Yes,” Daylen said uncomfortably. “He might be a while. Last I saw him, he was laid up with a bad case of dead.” Rooting around in his satchel, Daylen held out the locket and note that he had retrieved from the body.

Donall looked started as Daylen handed him the items. “What? And you have his locket? And a note?”

“I’d have brought you the whole body, but that seemed a bit morbid,” Daylen remarked. “The templars might have had a problem with me dragging a corpse through town.”

“Maker’s mercy,” Donall sighed. “Thank you for giving me these. I would never have known otherwise.”

“On the bright side, the bandits that killed him won’t be bothering anyone else,” Daylen replied.

Donall nodded. “Thank you. I wonder how many of us have met similar fates on this mad quest. With Henric gone, I need to return to Redcliffe. Perhaps later I will seek out the scholar his note mentions. But I must go. Thank you again, good ser. You have been most helpful.”

“Before you go,” Daylen said. “I was hoping to meet Arl Eamon.”

Donall stopped, gathering his belongings and notes. “Why is that, if I may ask?”

“Fair question, I suppose,” Daylen muttered. “We need his help against Teyrn Loghain. That traitorous bastard left us – and the king – to die at Ostagar. When the signal to charge came, he took his section of the army and left. It was just short of blind luck that Alistair and I survived. And then to add insult to attempted murder, Loghain blamed the Wardens for Cailan’s death and declared us traitors and regicides.”

Donall looked uneasy. “The arl is a popular man, it’s true. Teyrn Loghain, however, is a hero throughout Ferelden. Whatever the teyrn has done or not done, the arl remains ill, or worse. That is my primary concern.”

“Do you think Loghain is involved with the arl’s illness?”

Donall rubbed his chin in thought. “The arl fell ill before the king died. But what if Loghain planned that, too? Ah, such thoughts do not sit well with me.”

“We should see what’s happening in Redcliffe ourselves,” Alistair declared. “I believe that now more than ever.”

“If nothing else, I am certain you would be welcomed at Castle Redcliffe,” Donall agreed. “The arlessa is there, and she could tell you more than I could.”

“Good luck, Ser Donall,” Daylen said. The man nodded and left quietly. The Warden looked to Alistair. “Let’s get out of this place.”

“Agreed. Let’s pick up Sten and go.”

—ROTG—

“Set me free, and I will follow you against the Blight,” Sten said as they approached.

Daylen nodded, crossing his arms. “How can you help us, exactly?”

“I have spent my life in the vanguard,” Sten replied. “I know war. And your lands need all the help they can get. I will follow you into battle. In doing so I shall find my atonement.”

“Very well,” Daylen said. “We’ll let you out.” Nodding to Leliana, he watched as the woman unlocked the cage door. “Glad to have you with us, Sten.”

“May we proceed?” Sten said bluntly. “I am eager to be elsewhere.”

“First things first,” Daylen replied. “You won’t get far in those clothes. Use the heavy chainmail we salvaged. What’s your weapon of choice?”

Sten frowned a moment. “A greatsword.”

“Perfect,” Daylen said, unstrapping the heavy sword from his back. “I just happen to have one lying around.” Watching as Sten strapped on the armor and gave the greatsword a test swing, Daylen nodded approvingly. “Blind luck we just happened to find a set of heavy armor and a giant sword right before we found someone to use them.” As Sten sheathed the sword, Daylen looked him up and down. “Are you all right? You were in that cage for weeks.”

“You are concerned?” Sten asked. “No need. I am fit enough to fight.”

Daylen nodded as the group set off, heading for the highway. “Good. I need you at top form if we’re going to…” he trailed off as he noticed a group of men standing in front of them, armed with a motley collection of salvaged weapons. A similar group closed in behind them. “Oh, dear.”

“We done heard what was said,” the lead man rasped. “You’re a Warden. I don’t know if you killed King Cailan, and Maker forgive me, I don’t care. But that bounty on your head could feed a lot of hungry bellies. Attack!”

Daylen opened up with a blast of ice that froze most of the group in front of them solid. Sten drew his greatsword, crushing a man’s skull with the pommel and immediately following up with a swing that nearly cleaved another man in half. Alistair was handily fighting off two other men, and Leliana’s daggers were opening up arteries and severing muscles left and right. The fight only truly became one-sided when Morrigan unleashed a blast of electricity that finished most of the grouped-up men.

Less than a minute later, it was all over, and Daylen felt sick as he looked at the carnage. “Anybody hurt?” he asked, pulling a longbow out from under one of the corpses. Nobody had more than a bruise, and he passed the bow to Leliana, who checked it over briefly and nodded gratefully.

“Foolish, to think they could handle us,” Morrigan sniffed.

“They had numbers and were desperate,” Alistair said. “Look, none of them even had armor.” His head snapped to one side, and his eyes narrowed. “Everyone stay alert. Darkspawn.”  
Daylen stood, drawing his staff. “How many? What direction?”

Alistair drew his sword, pointing in the direction of the highway. “No more than a dozen. That way.”

“Time to go to work,” Daylen said. “Let’s move.”

It was half a dozen hurlocks with a pair of genlocks. They were nicely bunched up, although the group leader was charging at a pair of dwarven merchants cowering next to their spilled wares. Daylen snapped off a blast of frost that disabled the archers, ice crystals crackling as they spread across darkspawn flesh. Alistair slid into the space next to Daylen, whistling at the hurlock alpha and beckoning with his shield. The creature roared a challenge and swung a wickedly curved sword, the blow glancing off Alistair’s shield as he stepped forward.

Meanwhile, Leliana had knocked out both archers, arrows to the neck and head disabling them quite handily. Then a giant spider leapt onto one of the hurlocks, ripping out its throat with its fangs and tackling another. Daylen conjured a lump of stone, planting it square in the remaining genlock’s chest. The creature squealed as its ribcage shattered, and Leliana put an arrow through its skull, silencing the beast. The spider halted, before flowing back into Morrigan’s form.

The other three rounded on the alpha, finding Alistair trading blows with the darkspawn, neither one finding an opening in the other’s guard. “Leliana, do you have a clear shot?” Daylen asked, glancing at Morrigan, who seemed no worse for wear despite the magic she had just performed

Leliana nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring. “Alistair, jump back whenever you can!” Alistair leapt backwards, ducking a wide swing from the alpha, and Leliana let the arrow fly, the barbed head spearing through the alpha’s neck and splattering tainted blood across the highway. The hurlock dropped like a bag of wet sand.

“Nice shot,” Daylen said, checking the bodies over. He grunted in disappointment after only finding a handful of coppers. Spotting the flash of color from a mage’s robe amongst the bodies, Daylen tugged a dead genlock off the corpse, finding a dead woman underneath. Patting down the woman’s pockets, Daylen found a sealed letter and an empty vial that smelled faintly of lyrium. Shrugging and breaking the seal on the letter, Daylen read aloud. “I won’t go back. Let them hunt, and dread finding me. But you, Melis, should not live this life. It would please me if you found a life in the Circle Tower. I left a few things there, mostly stolen from the enchanters. Sell them to fund a new path. The cache is in the study area, middle alcove. Goodbye. Bel Gruce.” Daylen looked up from the note. “Bel Gruce is…well, was, a Circle mage. She went apostate a few months back. Guess she didn’t make it.” Bending down, he tugged up one sleeve, hissing out a breath as he saw a line of half-healed cuts. “Shite.”

“Blood magic?” Alistair asked.

“There were rumors she had been dabbling,” Daylen replied, standing up. “Most of the mages didn’t believe it until she vanished. They figured she’d just been executed.”

“People disappear that easily?” Leliana asked.

“At the Circle? Absolutely. There’s no accountability, we can’t call the Templars on any of their decisions without running the risk of vanishing ourselves.” Daylen scowled a moment, before shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m out of there and Maker willing, I won’t be going back.” He turned around, spotting the two dwarves poking through the wreckage of their wagons. “You all right there?”

The older dwarf turned, nodding gratefully. “Mighty timely arrival there, my friend. I’m much obliged.” Daylen smiled, and the dwarf went on. “The name’s Bodahn Feddic, merchant and entrepreneur. This here is my son, Sandal. Say hello, my boy.”

“Hello,” the younger dwarf said dully.

“Road’s mighty dangerous these days. Mind if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we’re going the same way.”

“It’s a bit…complicated,” Daylen said delicately. “But you’re welcome to come along.”

“Complicated?” Bodahn laughed. “Somehow, I imagine that only says half of it. Thank you for the offer, but there may be more excitement on your path than is good for my boy and me. Allow me to bid you farewell and good fortune.”

“Goodbye,” Sandal waved.

“Now then, let’s get this mess cleaned up, shall we?”

Daylen knelt near one of the wrecked crates, finding a small carving of a robed woman and pocketing it.

“Let’s find a place away from the city to make camp,” Alistair suggested. “It’ll be getting dark soon.”

—ROTG—

Caves, dark and dank, the smell of death and mold.

Looking down into a chasm that seemed to be filled with fire.

Darkspawn. Thousands of them.

Standing on a bridge, overlooking the horde, it roared.

_The archdemon._

Blasting out a gout of fire, a hissing whisper barely reached his ears.

—ROTG—

Daylen rolled over and sat up, mopping his forehead with his sleeve and brushing his hair back out of his eyes.

“Bad dreams, huh?”

Daylen looked over to see Alistair sitting next to the cooking pot, watching him. “It seemed so real.”

“Well it is real, sort of. You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That’s what your dream was. Hearing them. The archdemon, it…talks to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That’s why we know this is really a Blight.”

Daylen stood and stretched. “Why didn’t Duncan just tell everyone that?”

“He did,” Alistair said quietly. “He said he felt the archdemon’s presence. Everyone just assumed he was guessing. It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can’t. Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me, too.”

Daylen rolled his eyes, uncomfortable with how much had been kept from him. “Any other surprises I should know about?”

“Other than dying young and the whole defeat-the-Blight-alone thing? No, I’m all tapped out for surprises. Anyhow, you’re up now, right? Let’s pull up camp and get a move on.”

Daylen nodded, and Alistair began breaking down his section of the camp. Turning around, he almost ran into Leliana. “Oh, hello there. Almost didn’t see you.”

“Well, here I am,” she replied brightly. “Something you wanted to talk about?”

“What would someone like you be doing in Lothering’s chantry?”

“What is meant by ‘someone like me’?”

“They don’t teach you to fight like that in the cloister,” Daylen said. “Do they?”

“Did you think I was always a cloistered sister? The Chantry provides succor and safe harbor to all who seek it. I chose to stay and become affirmed.”

Daylen fought the urge to say _no, I think you were a bard_ , and tried a different tack. “And why were you seeking safe harbor?”

“The Chantry does not pry, and you should? I desired time apart from the world. I was a traveling minstrel, in Orlais. Tales and songs were my life. I performed, and they rewarded me with applause and coin. And my skill in battle? Well, you pick up different skills when you travel, yes? Yes, of course. Er…let’s move on.”

Daylen nodded, accepting the explanation. “Leliana? One day I want the truth. The Chantry might not pry, but the Chantry isn’t counting on you to watch their back while they fight darkspawn.”

Spotting Morrigan glaring at Cupcake with something in her hand, Daylen walked over. “Ugh,” the mage said. “Look at what you fool dog placed in my pack!” She brandished a half-crushed rabbit, and Daylen took a step back as the smell reached his nose. Cupcake wagged his tail happily, tongue lolling, and Morrigan glared at him some more. “A putrid half-eaten hare is not something a woman wants to find in her unmentionables!”

Daylen scoffed in mock offense. “Why doesn’t he ever share his food with me?”

Morrigan held out the rabbit again. “You are welcome to this, if you really want it.” Daylen shook his head, and Morrigan dropped it in front of Cupcake. “The dirty mongrel can have this back. And tell him not to do it again.”

“You heard the lady,” Daylen said, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Don’t do it again. You’re a wardog, not a nursemaid.” Cupcake hung his head, and Morrigan rolled her eyes, turning to leave. “Wait, hold up!”

Morrigan stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “What do you wish of me?”

“I’d like to ask you something.”

“If you must,” she sighed. “Walk with me.”

“How did you become a shapechanger?” Daylen asked as they walked towards her tent, remembering her demonstration at the highway.

“I was not born such. ‘Tis a skill of Flemeth’s, taught over many years in the Wilds. The Chasind have tales of we witches, saying that we assume the forms of creatures to watch them from hiding. When a child is alone and separate from his tribe, that is when we strike, dragging the young boy kicking and screaming to our lair to be devoured. A most amusing legend.”

Daylen fought a smile at the idea of lithe, lean Morrigan fighting with some strapping Chasind boy. “Your mother has been doing this for a long time, then?”

“Changing her form, certainly. Devouring lost children, I cannot say. She has not done it in my experience, though in truth my lifespan is but a fraction of hers.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you ask? Is there something specific you wish to know?”

“Several things, actually. Can anyone become a shapechanger? Do you spend a lot of time as an animal? Can you change into other human forms, as well?”

“Anyone with sufficient skill and magical power can learn the skill,” Morrigan replied. “Indeed, you could learn the spells required, if I cared to teach you.” Daylen nodded, and she moved on to his next question. “There were nights when the Wilds called to me, ‘tis true. You look upon the world around you and think you know it well. I have smelled it as a wolf, listened as a cat, prowled shadows that you never dreamed existed. But my life is as a human. I am under no illusions to the contrary. The form of an animal is different from my own. One may study the creature, learn to move as it does, think as it does. In time, this allows one to become as it is. I gain nothing by studying another human, so my human form is the only one I possess.”

“And what do other animals think of you when you’re changed? Do they accept you?”

“They do not shy away from me,” Morrigan answered. “To their senses, I believe I seem like any other of their species. As to what they think, I truly cannot say. Just as I am still human, no matter my form, they are still animals. Thus they cannot speak, even were I to ask.”

“I’ve heard of this magic, but only slight, tangential references,” Daylen said. “I guess they would prefer Circle mages to not be able to turn into a bird and fly away at their whim.”

“Such magic ‘tis not unheard of, in the remote corners of the world.  Some of these traditions are old, indeed, passed down as carefully-guarded lore from one generation to the next. The zealots of the Chantry would uproot all such practitioners if they could, but as luck would have it some still exist. My mother is such a one.”

“Well, that’s good,” Daylen said. “Such traditions need to be preserved.”

Morrigan was taken aback. “I’m shocked that you think so, being a mage of the Circle as you were. But perhaps you felt a little like a caged bird, as well, caught within that dark tower?”

“Oh, hardly,” Daylen replied dryly. “I thoroughly enjoyed being watched by Templars every minute of the day, with them more than willing to abuse their power and kill or render Tranquil any of us at the slightest provocation.”

“I thought so,” Morrigan said. “Have you an opinion on my abilities, then? Am I an unnatural abomination to be put to the torch?”

Daylen mused on the tragedy that destroying a perfect pair of breasts with fire would be before answering. “Maybe tied to a flagpole and tickled.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Morrigan said darkly. “But enough of such talk. Let us proceed, lest the dust gather on us. I will teach you the basics of the discipline as time allows. Provided you have the will to make the attempt, that is.”

Daylen nodded his thanks, and left, noticing Sten had already packed his gear away. “Hello, Sten.”

“Warden,” the laconic giant replied.

“I am trying to get to know the people I work with,” Daylen said by way of explanation. “What were you doing in that cage?”

“Sitting, as you observed.”

“Very funny,” Daylen said dryly. To his surprise, Sten gave a genuine, if small smile.

“Thank you. Was there anything else?”

“You’re a long way from home, Sten,” Daylen followed up. “Lothering isn’t exactly near Par Vollen. Why did you come to Ferelden?”

“To answer a question,” Sten said cryptically.

“What was the question?”

“The arishok asked, ‘what is the Blight?’ By his curiosity, I am now here.”

“Don’t you have to report back, then?”

“Yes.”

Daylen blinked at the lack of information he was being given. “Well, I can see you’re right on top of that.”

Sten paused before replying. “I cannot go home,” he said sullenly.

“Well, you can stay with us,” Daylen replied. “You said yourself, you’re striving for atonement.” Sten blinked. _For him, that was almost flabbergasted,_ Daylen thought.

“Thank you,” Sten said after a long pause. “Can we move on? We keep the darkspawn waiting.”

“Right, it’s almost light,” Daylen agreed. “Help Leliana pack up, we’ll be underway shortly.”

Sten nodded, ending the conversation with a curt, “Warden.”

Daylen spotted Cupcake scratching at some dirt at the edge of the camp, and watched as the hound dug furiously at the packed soil. “Trying to find a way through the earth, are we?” The dog snuffled, not stopping. “All right! Have fun then!” As he turned, he heard a clink and a victorious ‘whuff!’ as Cupcake unearthed a bottle of ancient-looking alcohol. Shrugging and tucking it away, Daylen scratched the dog behind the ears, getting a happy bark in reply. As he turned to pack his own equipment, Daylen spotted Alistair watching the trail behind them. “Something wrong?”

“There’s someone coming,” Alistair said quietly. “Sounds like a wagon, but I’m not sure who that might be, or if they’re friendly.”

“Leliana, take cover,” Daylen ordered. “If things get unpleasant, pick off targets at your discretion. Morrigan, same thing.” The two nodded, heading towards opposite ends of the camp. “Alistair, Sten, Cupcake, with me.” The trio drew their weapons as Cupcake growled softly, and Alistair stepped in front of Daylen, his shield in front of him.

The wagon rounded the corner, and Daylen’s guard dropped. “It’s those two dwarves we met in Lothering.” Raising his voice, he called out. “Bodahn? Is that you? What brings you out here so early in the morning?”

“My word,” Bodahn said nervously at the sight of all the drawn weapons. “I didn’t mean to startle you so. We were heading out from Lothering, you see, and saw the fire from your camp. I remembered the kind offer you made the last time we met, and is there anywhere safer for a poor merchant and his son to sleep? I think not. I’m perfectly willing to offer you a fine discount for the inconvenience of our presence. How does that sound?”

Daylen looked at the wagon. “If space allows, could we ride, rather than walk?”

Bodahn looked almost offended. “Well, of course. I wouldn’t make you lot walk while we rode if you’re giving us protection.”

“In the interests of full disclosure…” Daylen looked uncomfortable. “Bodahn, my name is Daylen Amell. I’m a Grey Warden. Are you comfortable with traveling with us?”

“Rumors say the Wardens weren’t responsible for the king’s death,” the dwarf replied. “I don’t much believe that the Wardens would kill the king, anyway. What would they gain from it?” He shrugged. “I don’t have a problem with it.”

“Then show me your wares, Bodahn,” Daylen said with a grin. “Let’s do some business.”

—ROTG—

“So, Daylen,” Alistair said, turning a worry token over in his hand as he spoke. “What’s our first move?”

“All right, let’s review,” Daylen replied. “We can go to the mages, the dwarves, Arl Eamon, or the elves first off. Or we could go to Denerim and take the fight to Loghain.” He leaned his head back against the side of the wagon. “I would wonder how I wound up leading this merry band of misfits, but that can wait. You’re suggesting we go to Redcliffe first.” Alistair nodded. “I respect your opinion, but I don’t think we should go there first.”

“Why not?” Alistair asked. To Daylen’s surprise, the other Warden seemed curious, not upset.

“Normally, I would jump at the chance to get ourselves un-marked as traitors,” Daylen explained. “But the Dalish have to be our first move. If we wait, they may not be around for us to find later. We’re going to have difficulty finding them as it is. I’d rather not give them any more time to move around.”

“That’s a good point,” Alistair admitted. “After that, we can decide what to do next.”

—ROTG—

“So, this is the Brecelian Forest,” Daylen said, looking around. They had left Bodahn behind a week before at a small trading post on the border of the forest. The merchant had promised to wait for them until they returned. “We’re pretty deep in already. How are we supposed to find the Dalish? Anyone got any brilliant ideas? Any not-so-brilliant ones?”

“Well, we could follow the big tracks,” Alistair said, pointing at a set of furrows cut into the grass and underbrush. “Dalish travel in big carriage-wagon type-things, and they _do_ leave tracks.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow “You have skill in tracking?”

“No,” Alistair admitted. “But Sten does.”

“That is true,” Sten said. “But these tracks are old. A week at least.”

Daylen sighed. “So we could spend months chasing the elves around the forest?”

“Not exactly,” Alistair said. “If I remember correctly, the Dalish tend to camp in places for anywhere from a week to a few years at a time.”

“Well then, let’s get moving.”

It took them two more days to find the elves. Sten’s tracking and hunting abilities, mixed with Leliana’s archery kept them fed. Finding traces of hunted game and some out-of-place droppings led them to a clearing in the forest, where several large carriages were arrayed.

“I just hope they don’t kill us on sight,” Alistair muttered.

“They’ve had hunters watching us,” Daylen replied quietly. “A half-day at least.”

“And how can you tell that?” Leliana asked.

“You grow up with Templars standing guard all the time, you get a feeling for when you’re being watched,” Daylen replied. “They may be waiting to see what they want, or they might be friendly. I only know one way to find out. Let’s just not try and seem like we’re sneaking up on them.”

“Stop right there, outsider,” a female elf said, stepping out onto the trail. Daylen stopped short, surprised at how easily they had snuck up on them. “The Dalish have camped in this spot. I suggest you go elsewhere, and quickly.”

Daylen eyed the other hunters stepping onto the trail, weapons in hand but lowered. “Sorry to bother you. Actually, I’ve been looking for the Dalish.”

“I find that hard to believe,” the hunter replied. “What business could we Dalish possibly have with a group like yours?”

“Well, I’ll be honest with you,” Daylen said. “I’m a Grey Warden. I don’t know if your people are aware, but there is a Blight, coming from the south. I was hoping to enlist the help of the Dalish. If you wouldn’t mind, could you take me to your leader?”

“A Grey Warden?” The elf crossed her arms. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Daylen blinked at her, before crossing his arms in a reflection of her. “How do you know we’re not? Many people go about pretending to be Grey Wardens, do they?”

There was a moment’s pause, and Alistair bit his lip and looked down, clearly trying not to laugh. “No, that’s true,” the elf agreed. “Perhaps I shall let the keeper decide for himself. Follow me.”

"Watch yourself, shemlen," one of the elves growled as Daylen passed by him. "Remember that our arrows are trained on you."

Daylen stopped and stared the elf down. "Do I go calling you names? No. And humans have got a lot of awful ones for elves. Besides, 'shemlen' doesn’t really apply to me. I'm not particularly quick, nor am I a child."

The elf's eyes widened. "You speak the language?"

Daylen rocked a hand back and forth. "A little. Much less than you or your Keeper do. Couldn’t hold a conversation in it, but I know some words and phrases. Are you familiar with the Circle of Magi?" The elf nodded, and Daylen continued. "They've got an enormous library. Some of the books are on the Dalish, and some include notes about your language. It's basic stuff, I doubt that there's anything in there that would be of use to your people, but it's enough to understand some of the elven tongue." The elf gave him a wary look, and Daylen shrugged. "Dareth shiral to you then, I guess." Gesturing to his companions, Daylen headed into the camp.

Daylen eyed the bald elf that appeared to be the clan’s leader. “Hmm,” the elf said. “I see we have guests.” Cupcake growled at him, and the elf shook his head. “And a hound amongst them. As if we haven’t had enough problems with such creatures.” He looked to the elf who had brought them into the camp. “Who are these strangers, Mithra? I have precious little patience and less time to spend on outsiders today.”

“This one claims to be a Grey Warden and wishes to speak with the clan,” Mithra replied. “I thought it was best to leave the decision to you.”

“That was wise of you,” he said approvingly. “Ma serannas, Mithra. You may return to your post.”

“Ma nuvenin, Keeper,” Mithra said before departing. Daylen gave her a polite nod before looking back to the Keeper.

“Now, allow me to introduce myself,” the Keeper said. “I am Zathrian, the keeper of this clan, its guide and preserver of our ancient lore. And you are?”

“Daylen Amell. Mage, Grey Warden, and accidental leader of the fight against the Blight. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Keeper Zathrian.”

Zathrian looked surprised. “Manners? From a shemlen? Interesting. What might be your mission here? Have you come to spread news of the Blight? I had already sensed the corruption spreading in the south. The existence of the Blight is not news to me. I would have taken the clan north by now, had we the ability to move. Sadly, as you can see, we do not.”

“Yes, it seems like you have had your own troubles,” Alistair chimed in. “What are the odds?”

“Everyone’s in trouble these days,” Daylen muttered.

“I imagine you are here regarding the treaty we signed centuries ago,” Zathrian said. “Unfortunately, we may not be able to live up to our promises.” He pursed his lips a moment. “This will require some…explanation. Please follow me.” He led them to a makeshift hospital, and Daylen fought the urge to retch as he saw blood-soaked dressings being changed on badly wounded elves. “The clan came to the Brecelian Forest one month ago, as is our custom when we enter this part of Ferelden. We are always ware of the dangers in the forest, but we did not expect the werewolves would be lying in wait for us. They…ambushed us, and though we drove the beasts back, much damage was done. Many of our warriors lie dying as we speak.” Zathrian knelt next to an elf that was writhing in pain and sweating profusely, and magic glowed around his hands for a moment before the wounded elf lay still. “Even with all our magic and healing skill, we will eventually be forced to slay our brethren to prevent them from becoming beasts.”

“Not exactly a cold going around the clan, then,” Daylen said. “These wounds are not normal.”

“The Blight’s evil must be stopped, but we are in no position to uphold our obligations. I am truly sorry.”

“And you have no idea where we could find another Dalish clan in Ferelden?” Daylen asked. Zathrian shook his head, and Daylen winced. “Wonderful. Is there no way to help your men?”

“The affliction is a curse that runs rampant in their blood, bringing great agony and then ultimately either death or a transformation into something monstrous. The only thing that could help them must come from the source of the curse itself, and that? That would be no trivial task to retrieve.”

“Well, luckily for your people, I’m rather good at non-trivial tasks,” Daylen said with far more confidence than he felt. “You’re talking about a werewolf. What, you want me to bring back the fang that bit these elves?”

“Within the Brecelian Forest dwells a great wolf – we call him Witherfang. It was within him that the curse originated, and through his blood that it has been spread. If he is killed, and his heart brought to me, perhaps I could destroy the curse, but this task has proven too dangerous for us.”

“I can guess,” Daylen said quietly. “If your hunters could do it safely, they would have by now.”

“I sent some hunters into the forest a week ago, but they have not returned,” Zathrian explained. “I cannot risk any more of my clan.”

“Have you considered seeking outside help?” Daylen asked. “Surely there are other parties who would be interested in reducing the amount of werewolves running around.”

“From who?” Zathrian asked rhetorically. “The children of the stone? The shemlen? Do you truly think they have time to spare for us?”

Daylen conceded the point with a shrug. “You said you could ‘perhaps’ destroy the curse?”

“There is no guarantee that this will work as I suspect, but it’s the only hope we have left.”

“If it’ll help your people, I’ll find this Witherfang for you,” Daylen said.

“Where there is so much death, the Veil separating the spirit realm from our own becomes thin, allowing spirits to possess things living or dead. But if you can indeed help? Then I wish you luck.”

“I don’t need luck, I need information,” Daylen said. “How do I find Witherfang? Does he look any different from your average wolf? What can you tell me about this curse the hunters suffer from?”

“Watch for the white wolves,” Zathrian replied. “They are his eyes and ears in the forest. Witherfang himself is a great white wolf, far larger and fiercer than the average wolves you will see. As for the curse, there is not much to say. It stemmed originally from Witherfang, but now any werewolf may infect someone with it.”

“So if a werewolf bites me, then I’ll become infected?” Daylen asked. “That could be…inconvenient. How do you know if you have been infected?”

“It is possible, but not guaranteed,” Zathrian said. “The only way to protect against the curse is to not be bitten. If you are infected, you will know within a matter of days. You will begin to sweat and vomit, and most tellingly, your temper will become wild and uncontrollable. If that happens to you, you should seek out Witherfang even more swiftly. Your mission at that point will be rather…personal.”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose. “This could get very bad very quickly. How did this curse even start? Things like this don’t just happen.”

Zathrian’s face remained impassive. “That is a long tale I do not have time to tell. Ask Sarel about it, if you wish.”

“So do all werewolves everywhere stem from Witherfang?”

“No. But the ones from this forest, however, do.”

“Thank you for the information, Keeper,” Daylen said. Zathrian nodded, turning back to his work.

The group spent the next hour or two in camp. Despite Morrigan’s disdain for the entire affair, Daylen managed to get an unproven hunter together with the girl of his dreams, and also managed to not sleep with either one in the process. Sten’s skill with animals came in handy again when they found a wounded halla amongst the clan’s herd. The Warden spent some time speaking with Zathrian’s apprentice, Lanaya, gathering what information he could about the clan and the situation they faced. Leliana’s knowledge of human stories had her swapping tales with Sarel, the clan’s storyteller and teacher. Alistair was speaking quietly to a distraught elf in a corner of the camp as Daylen finished promising the camp’s smith that they would look for a particular kind of wood and traded for a hefty amount of reagents to mix for medicine. As the herbalist whipped up flask after flask of healing potions on a borrowed workbench, Alistair shook hands with the upset elf and walked over to Daylen, watching him work.

“Something wrong with that elf?” Daylen asked, nudging a handful of healing potions over to Alistair.

The warrior nodded, stowing the flasks in his belt pouches. “Name of Athras. He’s a hunter. Pleasant fellow, actually. It took a bit of talking, but I managed to get him to open up. Another elf named Danyla was his wife.”

Daylen looked up from his work at that. “Was?” he echoed.

Alistair nodded grimly. “They both fought the werewolves when the clan was ambushed. Danyla was gravely injured, and the curse spread fast. Apparently, there wasn’t much Zathrian could do to save her or even make her comfortable, and although the Keeper claims Danyla is dead, Athras hasn’t seen a body.”

“He thinks Zathrian’s lying?”

“You got it,” Alistair confirmed. “He – Athras, that is – thinks that Danyla became a werewolf, but any sort of confirmation is being kept from him so that he doesn’t get a bug on and go chasing after her.”

“And he wants us to do what, exactly? Get Zathrian’s permission for him to go find her?”

“Not exactly,” Alistair looked uncomfortable. “He wants us to find Danyla. Find out what happened to her, and bring him news.”

“That news may not be pleasant,” Daylen said.

“He just wants to know,” Alistair shrugged. “I said we’d look for her.”

“He give us any tips on how to recognize one werewolf from another?” Daylen asked. Alistair opened his mouth, before closing it and shaking his head. “That one’s going to be difficult.”

Alistair shrugged. “You ready to move out?”

Daylen nodded. “Just about. Link up with Leliana, see if she’s learned anything useful. Also tell her that Varathorn, the clan’s smith, has a set of Dalish leathers set aside for her. Should be a better fit than those salvaged ones she’s using now. Sten and Morrigan are waiting for us near the exit. I’ll be there shortly.” Alistair nodded, taking a hefty share of the elfroot potions Daylen had mixed to pass out to the others. Daylen cleaned up the last of his mess, nodding his thanks to Varathorn and spotting Mithra standing nearby. Approaching the elf, he coughed to announce his presence. “Hello there. Er…andaran atish’an,” Daylen said, stumbling over the elvish words.

The sentry’s lips twitched upwards slightly. “Your pronunciation is terrible.”

Daylen gave her a nervous smile. “Ir abelas. Elvish is not my first language. Not even my second, actually.”

Mithra nodded. “I trust there are no hard feelings about my questioning of you when you arrived. We Dalish must protect ourselves from trouble at all times.”

“I left that exchange with the same amount of arrows in me as when I started, so I’m calling that a victory,” Daylen said with a stronger grin. “Thank you for not shooting us on sight. Do others truly trouble your clan so much?”

“These days? Very little, to tell the truth, for we have established a fearsome reputation amongst the shemlen. We must still be vigilant, however. Not that I would expect an outsider to understand, but there you have it. We do what we must.”

“Well, I am a mage,” Daylen replied. “We’ve never been deprived of a homeland, but we’re not exactly treated well. Doubt it’s on any sort of the same level, however.”

“Had we known a Grey Warden was coming, we might have arranged a different reception,” Mithra said. “But I wish you good fortune with your task. Dareth shiral, Warden.”

“Farewell, Mithra.”

Daylen met the rest of his party at the other end of the camp, spotting Leliana tightening the straps on the Dalish boots Daylen had procured for her. “Let’s get moving, shall we?”

“Daylen, before we go,” Alistair said quietly, before looking to Leliana. “Tell him.”

“I spoke with the clan’s storyteller,” Leliana said, sliding on the gauntlets. She flexed her hand as she did, settling the leather in. Strapping the gauntlet on tight, she nodded approvingly. “The clan’s elder insists that these werewolves are simply cunning as any other predator is, but the clan thought differently. The storyteller and much of the clan strongly believe that the ambush they sprang upon the clan was too well-planned for simple, mindless beasts.”

Daylen scratched his head. “Why would Zathrian lie? Why hide the truth?”

Leliana shrugged. “They don’t think he did, although he may simply not be acknowledging the situation.”

“Wonderful,” Daylen said. “Well, let’s work with what we have, then. We need their help. Otherwise, I’d tell Zathrian to level with me or deal with his own problems. Let’s find ourselves a werewolf.”

—ROTG—

“They say the Veil is thin here,” Leliana whispered as they moved deeper into the forest. “All manner of strange things may be seen.”

“Oh, this is bad,” Daylen said, closing his eyes and feeling the pulse of ambient magic. “I can _feel_ the Fade pressing against the Veil. I’m surprised we’re not arse-deep in demons right now.”

“Is this going to be a problem for you?” Alistair asked.

Daylen opened his eyes. “No. I’ll be fine. But keep alert. If you see demons, tell them to sod off and stick something pointy in their face.” He tilted his head, trying to hear better. “Does anyone else hear howling?”

Less than a minute later, Daylen was regretting ever speaking to Zathrian. He was currently flat on his back, with a rabid werewolf’s maw six inches from his face. He currently had the middle of his staff lodged between the beast’s jaws as drool and foam dripped from the creature’s mouth onto his face. The scent of burning hair was thick in the air, courtesy of a fireball he had dropped on the group of wolves that had attacked. Leliana dropped another wolf with an arrow through the neck, before dropping the bow and drawing her daggers, ducking a lunge from another wolf. Kicking the wolf in the side, Leliana stabbed both daggers into the beast’s back, twisting the blades and severing the wolf’s spine.

Daylen squirmed, trying to leverage the massive werewolf away from him, but the beast had at least a foot in height on him and was almost twice as heavy. The creature snarled, before biting down hard on the staff, the wood and metal splintering under the crushing strength of the werewolf’s jaws. The staff snapped, and Daylen jerked his head to one side as the werewolf’s snout impacted the ground next to him. Dropping the staff and grabbing the creature’s face, Daylen unleashed a blast of frost with one hand and a bolt of lightning with the other. The creature’s fur ignited from the lightning, and it howled, sprinting away from the fight as its flesh burned. Daylen staggered to his feet, watching as Alistair gutted another werewolf and Morrigan’s magic put down another pair of normal wolves. Sten cleaved a wolf in half with a crushing swing from his greatsword, and the rest fled, yipping and whimpering. Daylen shook his head as he examined the pieces of his staff. The weapon had been completely broken by the werewolf’s bite.

“Anyone get bitten?” Daylen asked, pulling his drool-sodden robes away from his skin. Everyone checked themselves over, finding no bites but a handful of scratches and bruises. “Good. Let’s get…oh for _pity’s sake_ ,” he said, hearing more howling. “Let’s keep moving.”

The party moved through the depths of the forest, fighting the odd wolf or bear. Daylen could feel someone watching them, but it was unclear whether Dalish scouts were around or whether it was more werewolves.

Daylen eyed a stream ahead as they came closer to a moderately-rotted footbridge. “What do you think the odds are that that stream isn’t ice cold?”

“Slim and none, I would say,” Alistair said. “You planning on having a bath?”

“More like washing this gunk out of my robes,” Daylen replied, gesturing to the mess on his front. “I stink like a kennel.” Cupcake whined, and Daylen scratched the dog behind the ears. “I didn’t mean it like that, pup.” The wardog growled, his hackles up as he looked at the other side of the stream. “Uh-oh.”

Three werewolves bounded closer, and Leliana knocked an arrow as they approached. They came to a halt, bringing themselves to a standing position. The lead wolf growled. “The watch-wolves have spoken truly, my brothers and sisters. The Dalish send a human of all things, to repay us for our attack, to put us in our place.” The werewolf snuffled. “What bitter irony.”

Daylen ran through the long mental list of questions that had just arisen from the werewolf not only talking but doing so rather eloquently, before opening his mouth. “I…um…hello. Who are you supposed to be?”

“You speak to Swiftrunner, human. I lead my brothers and sisters.” He growled again. “Turn back now. Go back to the Dalish and tell them that you have failed. Tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will watch them pay!”

“All right, hang on now,” Daylen said. “I would prefer to talk to you. I mean you no harm. You suffer under this curse. The Dalish suffer under this curse because of your attacks on them. I intend to help both parties by _ending_ this curse.”

“Was it not Zathrian who sent you?” At Daylen’s nod, Swiftrunner snarled. “He wishes only our destruction, never to talk!”

“Is there no way this can be resolved peacefully?” Daylen asked.

“The time for peace is long past,” Swiftrunner replied. Daylen could have sworn he heard a note of regret in the werewolf’s raspy voice. “There will be no peace between the elves and we who are cursed.”

“Please, I’m trying to understand. Why do you hate the Dalish so much?”

“You know nothing, do you?” The wolf replied. “Nothing of us and even less of those you serve. You are a fool, and we are done talking. Run from the forest while you can. Run to the Dalish and tell them they are doomed.”

“That’s not an answer!” Daylen sighed. “I don’t want to fight you. I really don’t. But neither can I retreat.”

“I do not wish to fight you either, but we cannot trust you,” Swiftrunner said. “Come, brothers and sisters, let us retreat. The forest has eyes of its own, and it will deal with intruders as it always has.” Swiftrunner led the other werewolves away, and Daylen shook his head.

“I just had a conversation with a werewolf. I used to think dealing with unruly apprentices was going to be the most interesting part of my life.”

“That’s the Wardens for you,” Alistair said. “…Is that more howling I hear?”

“Oh, wonderful,” Daylen groaned. “And me without a weapon. Well, let’s keep moving. Maybe we won’t-” He broke off as a rabid werewolf tackled him. A blast of flame issued from his hands, and the werewolf burst into flames as the others engaged the rest of the pack. The beast flopped off of him, writhing on the ground, and Daylen rolled in the opposite direction, conjuring a lump of stone and flinging it at the wolf that was currently biting Leliana on the wrist. The rogue cradled her arm as the wolf let go, and Daylen loosed a quick and dirty healing spell, getting her arm back into fighting shape. Leliana nodded her thanks, retrieving a dropped dagger and stabbing a werewolf in the back as it clawed at Alistair’s shield.

Daylen turned, only to stagger back as a regular wolf tackled him, the two rolling down a hill and close to a cliff. Daylen managed to fling the wolf away from him and rolled to a stop as the wolf bounced over the edge, howling on the way down. Daylen rolled over, spotting a Dalish hunter lying on the ground nearby.

“Daylen!” Alistair called. “Are you all right?”

“Quiet, fool,” Morrigan snapped. “Do you wish the entire forest to hear us?”

“Enough,” Daylen called back. “Get down here. I’m not alone.”

Alistair skidded down the hill after him, the others not far behind. “A Dalish? Is he alive?”

“…Ish?” Daylen replied, checking the elf over. “He’s pretty badly injured.” He managed to heal some of the elf’s wounds, before shaking the elf. “Say there, you conscious?”

“What?” The elf mumbled. “Who…who comes?”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Daylen replied. “You’re badly injured. What happened?”

“We were sent to find Witherfang,” the elf gasped. “Bring his heart. Attacked…I…” he groaned, passing out.

Daylen shook his head, before slapping the elf across the face. The hunter snapped awake again, and Daylen passed him a waterskin. The elf became more lucid after a few mouthfuls, and he managed to sit up. “Where am I? Am I still in the woods?”

“Yes, still in the Brecelian Forest,” Daylen replied. “I was going to take you back to the Dalish camp, but are there any other members of your hunting party around here?”

“I don’t know,” the elf said. “Have you seen any?”

“Not a one,” Daylen replied. “Although your people have managed to hide from me before, so they could be out there.”

“I hope that they found safety, though it seems unlikely,” The elf said.

“All right. Nothing we can do about them now. I need information. How did this happen?”

“We,” the elf gulped hard, before continuing. “We were beset upon by…by a pack of werewolves. Savages. Not like the ones who attacked the camp. We tried our best, but…too many.” He groaned in pain again, falling unconscious.

“Looks like there’s two kinds of werewolves out here,” Daylen said, standing up. “Sten, Alistair, can you carry this elf while we head back to their camp?”

Sten rolled his eyes, easily hefting the elf and slinging him over his shoulder. “Lead on.”

“Let’s get him back to the camp. Maybe I can pick up a new staff while I’m there,” Daylen mused.

Mithra found them first. “Andaran atish’an, Grey Warden. Our scouts saw you approaching and tell me you carry the body of one of our hunters with you.” Sten set the elf’s body down, and Mithra knelt, examining the body. Daylen averted his eyes as the leather skirt of her armor rode up. “Ah, Deygan. He is wounded, but I think he will live.”

“I’m glad we were able to help him,” Leliana said. “Thank the Maker we returned to the Dalish in time; He must have watched over this man.”

“Or perhaps his own gods were watching out for him,” Morrigan replied dryly.

“And perhaps they just know the Maker by another name,” Leliana challenged.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Believe what you wish. It seems to me that they should be thanking the Grey Warden more than some absent god, but who am I to judge?”

Daylen sighed. “Would you two stop?” He looked to Mithra. “I stabilized his condition as best I could, but he needs more healing than I can provide out here.”

“Ma serannas,” Mithra replied. “Your help is appreciated. Come, lethallin. Let us take Deygan to the keeper, and quickly. If we are lucky, we may still save him.”

Daylen nodded to the elf, before leading the party back into the woods.

—ROTG—

_Apostates_

_It is not uncommon for the neophyte to mistake apostates and maleficarum as one and the same. Indeed, the Chantry has gone to great lengths over the centuries to establish that this is so. The truth, however, is that while an apostate is often a maleficar, he need not be so. A maleficar is a mage who employs forbidden knowledge such as blood magic and the summoning of demons, whereas an apostate is merely any mage who does not fall under the auspices of the Circle of Magi (and therefore the Chantry). They are hunted by the Templars, and quite often they will turn to forbidden knowledge in order to survive, but it would be a lie to say that all apostates begin that way._

_Historically, apostates become such in one of two ways: They are either mages who have escaped from the Circle or mages who were never part of it to begin with. This latter category includes what we tend to refer to as “hedge mages”—those with magical ability out in the hinterlands who follow a different magical tradition than our own. Some of these hedge mages are not even aware of their nature. Undeveloped, their abilities can express themselves in a variety of ways, which the hedge mage might attribute to faith, or will, or to another being entirely (depending on his nature). Some of these traditions are passed down from generation to generation, as with the so-called “witches” of the Chasind wilders or the “shamans” of the Avvar barbarians._

_No matter how a mage has become apostate, the Chantry treats them alike: Templars begin a systematic hunt to bring the apostate to justice. In almost all cases, “justice” is execution. If there is some overriding reason the mage should live, the Rite of Tranquility is employed instead. Whether we of the Circle of Magi believe this system fair is irrelevant: It is what it is._

_—From Patterns Within Form, by Halden, First Enchanter of Starkhaven, 8:80 Blessed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	5. Back Into the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hunt for Witherfang continues.
> 
> It was only writing about this when I realized just how long this section of the game really is. I'm cutting out as much as I feel is extraneous, but it's still REALLY long.

_The Dalish  
I took the road north from Val Royeaux toward Nevarra with a merchant caravan. A scant two days past the Orlesian border, we were beset by bandits. They struck without warning from the cover of the trees, hammering our wagons with arrows, killing most of the caravan guards instantly. The few who survived the arrow storm drew their blades and charged into the trees after our attackers. We heard screams muffled by the forest, and then nothing more of those men._

_After a long silence, the bandits appeared. Elves covered in tattoos and dressed in hides, they looted all the supplies and valuables they could carry from the merchants and disappeared back into the trees._

_These, I was informed later, were the Dalish, the wild elves who lurk in the wilderness on the fringes of settled lands, preying upon travelers and isolated farmers. These wild elves have reverted to the worship of their false gods and are rumored to practice their own form of magic, rejecting all human society._

_—From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

—ROTG—

Daylen closed his eyes as they came across another clearing. “There’s something…off, here.”

“What’s wrong?” Alistair asked.

“The Fade here is very, very thin,” Daylen replied. “Keep your eyes open. But there’s something…more.”

“Bigger problems,” Alistair said, turning around. “Darkspawn.”

“Oh, Maker, that’s not good,” Daylen squeaked as he saw an ogre ripping a boulder out of the ground. “Hit the dirt!” A lump of rock sailed over his shoulder and hit the ogre in the throat as it leaned back, and the beast stumbled, dropping the boulder. The rock dropped – directly onto the ogre’s skull. Despite the trio of hurlocks charging them, Daylen giggled at the poleaxed look on the ogre’s face.

“Do not just stand there,” Morrigan snapped, spinning her staff as she prepared another attack. “Take the others!” A lightning bolt blasted from her staff, splashing across the stunned ogre’s chest, and the others snapped into action, Leliana aiming carefully and firing an arrow that would have sailed directly into the lead hurlock’s eye socket, had the darkspawn not caught it on his shield, lowering the targe and snarling at them over the edge. Then it squealed as Cupcake used its hamstring as a chew toy, collapsing as the wardog’s teeth tore at its flesh. Cupcake lunged again as it swung its sword, his jaws closing around the hurlock’s wrist and his head rolling back and forth. There was a dry crunch as the hurlock’s arm broke, the sword dropping into the underbrush. The hurlock thrashed under Cupcake’s tender ministrations, and the dog growled, before pouncing again, ripping the hurlock’s throat out.

In the time it took for the ferocious Cupcake to disable, disarm, and end the hurlock, Morrigan and Daylen had managed to trip the ogre in grease, set the blighted creature alight, and paralyze it with a particularly nasty entropic curse Morrigan knew. Sten and Alistair were bashing a pair of hurlocks back and forth between them, and Leliana had dropped two genlocks with her bow, Cupcake’s powerful jaws ensuring the darkspawn stayed down.

“Get a move on, Warden,” Morrigan snapped as Daylen wove magic. “That beast shall not wait for you.”

“Working on it,” Daylen grunted, pumping more mana into the spell. “We’re trained to use staves to weave our magic.” Morrigan scoffed, and Daylen rolled his eyes, before giving the mana nature, a fireball blazing to life between his hands. “Eat this!” The fireball impacted the ogre’s face as it began charging, and the ogre’s head caught fire as it was thrown back by the blast. Alistair looked over as Sten beheaded the last remaining hurlock, and charged, ramming his sword into the ogre’s undefended side as it clawed at its own face, trying to extinguish the flames. On the third stab, the beast finally fell still, and Alistair yanked his sword free, tainted blood soaking the earth.

“Anyone injured?” Daylen asked, looking around. He tilted his head, squinting slightly. “Morrigan, can you feel that?”

“Yes,” Morrigan murmured. “‘Tis a thinning of the Veil. We should not linger here.”

“It’s more than that,” Daylen insisted. “There’s something else around here, something alive.”

“You can tell that?” Alistair asked, wiping blood from his sword.

“I’ve felt the presence of Fade spirits before,” Daylen explained. “Just once. But it left an impression.”

“Daylen, look out!” Leliana shouted, pointing behind him.

Most people, upon having something like that shouted at them, will react in one of two ways. Some will duck. Others will turn to see what the problem is, and more often than not will fail to move out of the way in time.

Daylen fell squarely into the latter category, and managed to say “What the f-” before a swinging tree limb slapped him across the clearing. The Warden tumbled over the packed earth, coming to a dazed halt after several yards. Sitting up and coughing, Daylen watched as the tree stumped forward, its trunk separating into two leg-like sections.

“What is this thing?” Alistair shouted, catching a blow on his shield. “Is it a demon?”

Morrigan hit the tree with a blast of frost, freezing it in place. “Ask questions later! Attack now!”

Daylen limped back into the fight, watching as Sten’s sword shattered one of the tree’s frozen limbs. “It’s a sylvan. Fade spirits sometimes wind up possessing trees, rather than people.”

“Great,” Alistair grunted, hacking off a branch as the sylvan thawed and resumed its attack. “How do we kill it?”

Daylen rolled his eyes, weaving magic between his hands. “How do you kill any tree?” He chucked the fireball he had formed, the bark of the sylvan crackling and sap bursting under the intense heat. The sylvan fell, and a few moments later Daylen extinguished the flame with a burst of frost. “Let’s not burn the whole forest down,” he said quietly. “I doubt the Dalish would appreciate that.”

“I think we would appreciate not being dead more!” Alistair replied. “So, wait, you’re telling me demons can possess trees? I thought it was just mages that could get possessed.”

Morrigan snorted. “Yes, the Chantry would have you think that.”

Daylen shrugged. “There are records of non-mages being possessed. Anywhere the Veil is thin – like here, where there’s been so much death and bloodshed – Fade spirits can cross over to our world. Unfortunately, there’s not always a mage handy for them to possess. Some wind up as shades, draining anyone unlucky enough to be nearby to feed itself. Others possess whatever’s handy. Sometimes, that’s a tree.”

“And _that_ ,” Alistair said, pointing at the burnt tree, “is the result?”

“It’s either that or something seriously messed up in whatever the Dalish feed their mounts,” Daylen replied with a grin. Alistair chuckled, and Daylen jerked a thumb further down the trail. “Well, let’s keep moving, let’s keep moving. Places to see, things to kill.”

It was less than another twenty steps before they ran into another sylvan. The first sign they had of it was when the tree leaned forward with a groan. The sylvan rammed its arms into the ground, and a moment later Morrigan shrieked in fear and pain. Daylen turned, seeing roots erupting from the ground and curling around her, and instantly made the logical connection. “Alistair, Sten, kill that thing! Leliana, help me!” By the time the two made it to her, Morrigan was almost completely covered in the roots, and was pinned between two of them, her staff arm still flailing outside the mass of mobile boughs that held her.

Then the limbs began to squeeze.

There was a wet snap as her arm broke, and Morrigan’s muffled screams intensified as she dropped her staff. “Morrigan, hang on, we’re getting you out of there!” Daylen shouted, grabbing hold of a pair of the roots, pumping frost magic into the animated wood. The limbs shattered as Leliana smacked them with the hilt of her daggers, and Daylen spotted Morrigan’s face, her eyes wide as she struggled against the roots. “Leliana, keep cutting! I can see her!” Freezing another section of the roots, Daylen braced his boot against another section of the roots, grunting as he yanked them away from his companion. The roots unraveled from her upper torso, and Morrigan clutched at her broken arm, gasping sobs as she cradled the injured limb. Leliana was crouched low, cutting away at the roots as carefully as she could, and Daylen looped his arms around Morrigan’s waist, tugging her free as Leliana cut her loose. The mage was limp in his arms as Daylen backpedaled away from the fight, and Daylen set her down on a fallen tree, watching as she began rocking back and forth.

“Let me see your arm,” Daylen said softly. Morrigan was panting, staring straight ahead with wide eyes. “Oi!” Daylen snapped his fingers under her nose, letting a spark of electricity jump between them. Morrigan’s eyes snapped over to him. “Your arm is broken. Let me see it!” The shaken witch winced as she extended her arm to him, and Daylen nodded gratefully. “It’s not too bad. Just…try to stay still for a moment.” She hissed in pain as Daylen pumped healing magic into her arm, fusing the bone back together. Daylen inspected his work, before nodding in satisfaction and looking the mage in the eyes. “You hurt anywhere else?”

For a moment, she looked vulnerable. Then the mask came crashing back down. “Nothing I cannot deal with,” Morrigan said. “I am fine. I appreciate your help.”

“Morrigan, if you’re injured…”  
“I said I am fine!”

“All right, all right,” Daylen said, holding up his hands. “Just offering to make you comfortable, is all.”

Morrigan sighed. “Fine. If you insist on badgering me, I will allow you to heal me. ‘Tis only scratches.” She shifted the cowl that covered her upper torso, and Daylen winced as he saw a long, ragged scrape along her ribs.

“Sylvan’s dead!” Alistair called. “We’re all fine here!”

“Good!” Daylen shouted back, a quick pulse of healing magic knitting the flesh back together. He saw Morrigan flinch, and prodded at the new skin. She twitched again, and Daylen scowled as Leliana set Morrigan’s dropped staff down next to them. “Morrigan, you have at least one cracked rib.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Proceed.” Healing the injured bone took but another few moments, and Daylen noticed several other scrapes along the mage’s body. Morrigan fussed, but allowed him to treat her.

“Have you bothered me enough for now?” She asked acidly, tugging her robes back into place. “Is your curiosity about my body satisfied?”

“For the moment,” Daylen replied dryly, returning her staff.

As they ventured deeper towards the clearing, Daylen groaned as another pair of trees began moving. “Oh, here we go again.” Lobbing a pair of fireballs, he set the trees alight, and Alistair and Sten pulled back as the trees charged. The sylvan made it a mere handful of steps before they collapsed under limbs weakened by fire.

“You should lead with that from now on,” Alistair said, prodding one of the burning sylvans with his sword.

“Again, I’d rather not burn the forest down,” Daylen replied. “If nothing else, I’d like to prevent us from having to run around in the fire.”

Alistair was peering at another tree. “I wonder if this is another one of those blasted things.”

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Leliana murmured darkly, keeping a wary eye on the forest around them. “We should keep moving.”

They had entered the clearing when another tree started moving.

“ _Oh for fuck’s sake_!” Daylen was readying a fireball when the tree started talking.

“Hrrm…what manner of beast be thee, that comes before this elder tree?”

Daylen let the fireball fizzle out, shocked by the tree talking. “I…huh. That’s new.” Clearing his throat, he stepped forward. “You’re not going to attack me, are you?”

“Ah, thou speakest of the others, how filled they are with hate? I apologize on their behalf, they cannot control their fate. Allow me a moment to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree.”

“It…rhymes?” Morrigan’s head was tilted to one side, and she looked as confused as Daylen. “‘Tis a rhyming tree. One can only imagine what manner of spirit is involved here.”

“A poet tree,” Daylen said, ignoring Morrigan’s annoyed sigh. “Very punny.”

“And unless thou thinkst it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon?”

“Not at all,” Daylen replied. “I frequently have people ask me for favors moments after meeting me. What’s this boon you mentioned?”

“I have but one desire, to solve a matter very dire: as I slept one early morn, a thief did come and steal an acorn.”

“And you would like it returned, I take it?”

The tree nodded mournfully. “All I have is my being, my seed. Without it, I am alone indeed. I cannot go and seek it out; yet I shall die if left without.”

“Grand Oak, I could look for your acorn, but this forest is very hostile. Do you know a safe path through?”

The tree rumbled. “My wooden skin has some magic, see, and part of it I can give to thee. The forest would see thee as a tree, and so no harm would come to thee.”

“Protection in a forest where so far just about everything has tried to kill us? That’d help. Very well, we’ll look for it,” Daylen replied. The group continued past the clearing.

“Is that a campsite?” Alistair asked. “It looks…remarkably intact.”

“Tents and bedrolls covered in leaves, but dry,” Leliana said, before looking at the fire pit. “This fire is still fresh. Yet no sign of any inhabitants.”

“How odd,” Morrigan mused. “A camp with no campers, complete with fire and warm blankets. Rather inviting, would you not say?”

“More suspicious than inviting,” Daylen replied, looking at the soft earth around the camp. “No footprints, no spoor, no sign of anyone actually _using_ the site.” He felt a prickling on the back of his neck and looked at the forest around them warily. “Let’s leave. If there’s someone who made this camp, it’d be rude to intrude.” As he turned to leave, he found his steps growing leaden, and a sudden overwhelming urge to sleep came over him.

Cupcake whined plaintively, yawning and nosing at Daylen’s hand. Daylen shook his head, trying to clear it. “It’d be a shame to waste this,” Leliana said sleepily.

“It’s so hard to think clearly,” Daylen mumbled. “Let’s not fight it. Let’s turn around and see what happens.” Turning around, he felt the fog in his mind crawling deeper. Morrigan stumbled, bumping into him. Raising his hands reflexively, Daylen found himself with two handfuls of Morrigan’s chest, and the sudden shock – followed by another shock as Morrigan slapped him out of reflex – was enough to clear his mind. As if it were a dream, the vision of the campground dissipated, replaced with a campsite filled with bones, and a single figure that lunged angrily at them. It looked to be made of rags and moving shadows.

A shade. Often dangerous against unwary travelers, it would pounce and drain them to feed itself.

However, one shade against six people was somewhat unequal odds and it within moments the shade’s body dissipated, the spirit destroyed.

“Maker’s breath!” Alistair said as the fog lifted. “This camp is ancient.” He looked vaguely green as he carefully stepped over piles of bones. “How many, do you think…?”

“I’d rather not think about it,” Daylen replied. “Too many.”

“A hungry spirit luring those who pass to their rest,” Morrigan declared, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked disturbed at the piles of bones but there was anger in her eyes at Daylen’s unintentional groping. The Warden mage was busily poking through the debris, the imprint of a hand on his face clearly visible even in the dying light. “And to their doom. One might wonder how it learned this trick.”

“No matter,” Sten rumbled. “It shall prey on no more innocents.”

“We should find a place to make camp,” Leliana suggested, looking up at what she could see of the darkening sky through the thick canopy of branches. “It will be dark soon.”

“Oh, yes, let us camp in the midst of all these dead bodies,” Morrigan scoffed.

“Tempting, but I’ve got a better idea,” Daylen said. Heading back down the trail, he tapped the single friendly sylvan they had met on the leg. “Excuse me, Grand Oak,” he called. “We were looking for a place to make camp tonight. Would you mind terribly if we stayed nearby?”

“Oh, on the contrary,” the Oak said. “The life of an oak is often solitary. You may stay here, and no danger need you fear.”

“Wonderful. We’ll keep the fire to a minimum.”

—ROTG—

“Fascinating story about Aveline,” Daylen said. “I have to admit, as large as the Circle’s library is, they don’t have many stories you would read for enjoyment. Mostly history texts and books on spell theory. Some treatises on politics, but very little that’s actually entertaining to the average person.”

“That is a shame,” Leliana replied, eyeing the pot Alistair was stirring with a look of wary distaste. “Daylen, do you hear something?”

Daylen’s brows furrowed. “I do. Is Cupcake…growling?” He looked over, spotting Sten crouched in front of the dog. “Uh-oh.”

As Sten bared his teeth at the dog, Cupcake gave another low, menacing growl. Sten replied with an angry snarl, and Daylen watched, utterly confused as the two faced off. Cupcake gave another vicious growl, and Sten roared in response. Daylen was about to ask what was going on when Cupcake barked fiercely and lunged at Sten, stopping inches away from his face.

Sten nodded respectfully. “You are a true warrior, and worthy of respect.”

“ _Whuff_!”

Daylen was walking back towards the campfire when he noticed Alistair’s dark expression. “You all right?”

“M’fine,” Alistair muttered.

Daylen grunted. “Got a moment for some questions, then?”

“Ask away,” Alistair replied.

Daylen shrugged, willing to play the game if Alistair would. “So how did you become a Grey Warden?”

“Same way you did. You drink some blood, you choke on it, and you pass out. You haven’t forgotten already, have you?”

“Ha, ha ha,” Daylen replied, his tone dry enough to gather dust. “Ha ha ha. I’m just floored by your humor.”

Alistair gave a weak smile. “I do my best. What can I say?” Daylen tilted his head, silently urging him to go on, and Alistair sighed. “Let’s see. I was in the Chantry before.  I trained for many years to become a templar, in fact. That’s where I learned most of my skills. Luckily for me, I was recruited into the Wardens before I could take my vows.” His smile grew wider at a memory. “The grand cleric didn’t want to let me go. Duncan was forced to conscript me, actually. Was she ever furious when he did! I thought she was going to have us both arrested. I was lucky.”

Daylen looked around at their surroundings. “We’re wanted men, the last of our order in this country, facing an invasion that could end the world if not stopped, with nothing more than a handful of treaties that some people _might_ honor and what we’re carrying to work with. In other words, we’re up the river without an oar. We don’t even have a boat. You think this is better than being a templar?”

“Daylen, if I were a templar I’d be sitting in some temple someplace doing absolutely no good. Here, I have the chance to fight against the Blight, to actually make a difference. Isn’t that worth it?”

Daylen leaned back slightly, looking at his friend and re-evaluating him. “Alistair, some day you are going to make a damned good leader.”

The older Warden scoffed. “Please, let’s not. I’m not suited to command. Why do you think I’m letting you lead?”

“Because of my dashing good looks, my amazing wit, and the fact that I can blow shite up with my mind?” Daylen fished around in his satchel, pulling out a rolled-up piece of vellum. “Or is it because I’ve got the map?”

“Well, yes, there’s that, but mostly because if this all goes south, they’ll blame you, not me.”

Daylen smiled briefly, but gave his companion a somber look. “In all truth, Alistair, I’m glad you’re here. It’s good to have you watching my back.”

“I’ll always be thankful to Duncan for recruiting me,” Alistair said quietly. “If it hadn’t been for him, you know, I would never…” He swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t have…”

“I’m sorry,” Daylen mumbled through his beard. “He was a good man.”

“He was. He was a good man who didn’t deserve his fate, that much I’m sure of.” Alistair cleared his throat noisily, shaking his head. “All right. I think I’m done talking.”

“Alistair…do you want to talk about Duncan?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Alistair replied. “I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t mourn his loss,” Daylen said pointedly. “He saved me from the Circle, and I’ll always respect him for that. But…I’m understanding that he was like a father to you. And I just thought you might want to, or maybe _need to_ , talk about him.”

“I should have handled it better,” Alistair replied bitterly. “Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and…and everything. I’m sorry.”

“Alistair, one of the enchanters back at the Circle once told me something after a particularly embarrassing – and public – magical failure. I nearly blew myself up with a spell. You know what he said to me? If you spend all your time regretting the past, if you do nothing but kick yourself over your mistakes, you’ll never learn from them.” Daylen paused. “Of course, I’m a massive hypocrite for saying that, considering I sort of helped a blood mage escape from the Circle, and I’m probably going to feel guilty over that for the rest of my life…” Alistair snorted, and Daylen went on. “There’s no need to apologize, Alistair. You lost a man who was very important to you, someone who changed your life and helped define who you are today. That’s going to take some time to adjust to.”

“I’d, um,” Alistair blinked hard, his eyes suspiciously bright, “I’d like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.”

Daylen shook his head. “That’s not true. He had you. He had the Wardens.”

“I suppose he did,” Alistair admitted. “It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him. In the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.”

“Not surprising. I mean, you’d be dead if you were with him, but I understand. He saved your life by sending you to that tower.” Alistair nodded, staring at the fire, and Daylen pressed on. “To look at him, I’d guess he had some Rivaini heritage, but I don’t know. Where was he from?”

“I think he came from Highever, or so he said. Maybe I’ll go up out there sometime, see about putting up something in his honor. I don’t know.” The warrior looked over at him. “Have you…had someone close to you die? Not that I mean to pry, I’m just…”

“Not prying at all, considering I’ve been pestering you for your life story,” Daylen said. “No deaths, thankfully. But I think I’ve lost enough throughout my life to understand what you’re going through. I haven’t really lost anyone since I went to the tower.” _Besides Jowan_ , he thought.

“That must have felt a lot like when I got sent to the Chantry,” Alistair mused. “You mages don’t even get a say in the matter, after all.” He took a deep breath. “Where’s a darkspawn when you need one? I feel like beheading something.” He looked around. “Oi! Spaaaaawny! Where are you?” Daylen burst out laughing, and Alistair smiled broadly. “Thank you. Really, I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little.”

“Maybe I’ll go to Highever with you, when you go,” Daylen said.

“I’d like that,” Alistair replied warmly. “So would he, I think.”

“I just wish…” Daylen paused for a moment, trying to sort out how he felt. “I wish at least _one_ of the other Wardens, be it Duncan, or Richu, or any of the Wardens at Ostagar…I wish that one of them had survived. They…they’d have to know _something_ , they’d have some sort of information that could help us.”

“I know how you feel,” Alistair replied. “I feel so lost, without them. Without Duncan. Without any of the other Wardens at my back. I mean, you’re doing what you can, but…they knew what they were doing. And they’re all dead. Because of _him_.”

The two stared into the fire for a long minute, Alistair warming his hands briefly. “I’ll help you get him, Alistair,” Daylen said quietly. “I’ll help you take Loghain down.”

—ROTG—

“No wonder the Dalish couldn’t find Witherfang,” Daylen panted, looking at the pack of freshly-dead werewolves that had attacked the group a minute before. “If there’s this many werewolves about, they probably couldn’t even go looking.”

“There are many things besides werewolves in this forest,” Leliana said. “Many things more dangerous lurk here, it is said.”

“By who?” Daylen asked. “Who says all these things?”

“Storytellers, mostly,” Leliana replied. “What is this mist?”

Daylen felt mana surging through the mist and drew upon his own, readying himself for an attack. “Nothing good. It’s magic. Stay alert, everyone.” Striding into the mist, the party kept close together, emerging a few moments later.

“Does…does this trail look familiar to anyone else?” Alistair asked.

Morrigan opened her mouth to comment, but Daylen beat her to it. “Alistair, I haven’t been able to tell where we were going at all today. If you can recognize trees, I’ll trust you on that.”

Leliana turned around repeatedly, looking at their surroundings. “He’s right. We somehow got turned around.”

“Alright, let’s try that again. Stay close behind me.” Daylen closed his eyes and walked forward into the mist, only to smack into someone else. As he recoiled, clutching a stinging nose, Daylen cracked an eye open. “Leliana, how’d you get in front of me?”

“I have no idea,” the archer admitted. “I was walking close behind you, and then you were walking the other way. I never saw you turn.”

“You sure you didn’t just get turned around accidentally?” Alistair asked.

“Positive,” Daylen replied, rubbing his nose. “This is magic.”

“What, your nose?”

Daylen sighed. “Someone’s in fine smart-arse form today, I see.”

“Good to know that bump didn’t affect your vision,” Alistair said with a grin.

“Hush!” Daylen thought for a moment, before shrugging. “I guess this is what the Grand Oak was talking about. So we go find ourselves a thief.”

“Won’t be easy, in these woods,” Leliana said, looking around. “You could lose an army in here. It’s happened before.”

“Well, let’s hope we get lucky, then,” Daylen declared. “Other problem is, if this thief was good enough to steal an acorn off a tree without waking up the tree, how are we possibly going to get it back?”

—ROTG—

“Well, that was ridiculously easy,” Daylen muttered, pocketing the acorn.

Alistair looked at him incredulously. “You call that easy? All those questions gave me a headache.”

“Look, nobody died. We got what we wanted and all we traded was a ring I dug out of the debris that shade left behind. That’s good enough for me.” Daylen flinched, pressing a hand to the side of his head. “Is…is that sensation my sensing darkspawn?”

“Yes,” Alistair replied distastefully. “Several of them. A handful of hurlocks and an ogre.”

The others readied their weapons, but Daylen blinked, surprised at the detail. “You can tell that?”

“Sure,” Alistair replied. “I can see them.” He pointed, and Daylen turned to see the band of blighted creatures approaching.

“Bright side is,” Daylen said, readying a fireball, “You get to behead something now!”

—ROTG—

Alistair braced his boot against the dead ogre’s head, trying to pull his sword free of the beast’s skull. “Boy that’s really stuck.” He turned around. “Say, Daylen, would you give me a–” He jumped back as Daylen slammed a looted darkspawn maul down on the ogre’s head like a sledgehammer, fracturing the darkspawn’s skull.

Daylen groaned, dropping the weapon and rubbing his shoulder. “I think I pulled something. Clearly I was not put in this world to swing giant hammers.” He gestured at the lodged sword. “Try it now.”

Alistair braced himself against the darkspawn’s head again, taking a firm grip on the hilt of his sword. He grimaced at the nauseating sloshing sound that came from the ogre’s head as he worked the blade free. Nodding his thanks, Alistair wiped the blade clean and sheathed it. “Now what?”

“Now we go take a look at that,” Daylen said, pointing at a tombstone off to the side of the clearing. “There’s something here that doesn’t make sense. Let’s go and poke it with a stick.”

Alistair watched as the mage walked by him. “How did you survive long enough to make it to Ostagar?”

Daylen squinted at the markings etched on the tombstone. “These look like wards. Tevinter script. Can’t read it, this hasn’t been used in at least two hundred years. It’d be in Tevinter anyway. But if there’s wards, that’d mean there’s something interesting behind them.”

—ROTG—

Daylen cracked an eye open, feeling a sticky substance on his forehead and face. The mage sat up, his entire head pounding an anvil chorus that would make a team of blacksmiths seem quiet by comparison. Focusing hard, the Warden fought to figure out why he was on the ground. The last thing Daylen remembered seeing was a shield coming straight for his face. “Is everyone all right?”

“You and Leliana were knocked unconscious,” Alistair said, sheathing his sword. “Everyone else is uninjured.”

Daylen downed a potion, feeling the pain in his head subside. Touching his eyebrow, Daylen winced as his hand came away with blood on it. “The last thing I remember is…the tombstone, and…something spirit-y or demon-y and a giant shield. Coming right at my face.” Daylen scrubbed at the blood caked around his nose. “You killed it?”

“Wasn’t easy,” Alistair said. “Thing swung a greatsword like it was a toy. Sten took its head off. That seemed to do the trick.” He pointed to where Sten was burning a body, and Daylen stood, walking over to the flames.

“A revenant, I’d say,” Daylen declared, examining the armor they had salvaged. “Dangerous. Powerful.” He worked his jaw and spat off to one side, the phlegm coming out pink. “You can kill them, obviously, but it’s tough.”

“I’ve seen more of these around the forest,” Leliana said, touching the tombstone. “Presumably, they are more sealed revenants.”

“Something interesting behind the wards, eh?” Alistair snarked.

Daylen turned slightly pink. “All right, so maybe the wards were keeping something  _in_ rather than everything else  _out_. Still, we should kill the other revenants.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because what if some poor sod comes in and breaks the wards? Do you want a revenant running loose like that?”

“There was an interesting armor piece in the grave,” the warrior replied. “Too heavy for me to use, but Sten might be able to make use of it.”

“Well, we’ll see if we can…” Daylen broke off as Cupcake began growling and spotted a werewolf crouched on the trail. “Oh, _come on_!”

Unexpectedly, the werewolf did not rush to attack them. “Please…help,” the beast rasped. “I am not the mindless beast I appear to be!”

“You certainly look like a werewolf,” Daylen replied. “Are you a Dalish who was afflicted with the curse?”

“Yes!” The werewolf whimpered. “I fled into the forest. The werewolves, they…they took me in, but I had to return!”

“Careful,” Alistair cautioned. “They may have laid a trap for us. You never know.”

Daylen nodded, murmuring his reply. “Keep an eye out.” Raising his voice, he spoke to the werewolf. “Your Keeper Zathrian sent me out here. I seek Witherfang. Don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

“I have, but it is not what you think,” the werewolf said, grunting in pain. “But there is no time to explain. You must listen. My name is Danyla. My husband…he is called Athras. Please, you must…bring him a message.”

Daylen blinked. “Well that was unexpected. Your husband wanted us to look for you. He’s worried about you.”

“I want him to be at peace. He is a good man. Please…do not let him suffer, thinking of me. The scarf I wear, bring it to him. Tell him I love him. Tell him…I am dead and with the gods. I beg you…” Danyla stifled a howl, and began to tremble. “The curse…is fire in my blood! Please! End it for me! End it quickly!”

Daylen could see the extreme pain the cursed Dalish was in, but recognized the source of information. “I need answers, first. Please, you must help me! I can’t let any more Dalish meet your fate!”

“I will tell you what I know…if you promise to end my pain!”

“You have my word,” Daylen said.

“Then…then know the werewolves are no longer violent animals. They have…overcome the curse. Like I have. There is a ruin in the center of the forest. You may find them there. They will think…you mean to kill them. I can tell you no more…the pain! It is…too much. Please…fulfill your promise!”

“So be it,” Daylen whispered mournfully, accepting a dagger from Leliana. “ _Ir Abelas_ , Danyla.” The elf-turned-werewolf lifted her head, baring her throat, and Daylen opened the arteries with a quick slice.

“Gods…bless you,” the werewolf gasped, collapsing as blood spurted.

“May you find your way to the side of your gods,” Daylen said, taking the scarf Danyla had and folding it neatly. “This is going to be hard to explain to Athras.”

“At least we found her,” Alistair replied.

—ROTG—

“I say, Grand Oak! We have something you want back!”

The tree shook itself, and Daylen ducked as a shower of leaves came fluttering down. “My acorn is still gone, so I pray to thee…hast thou any news for me?”

Daylen produced the acorn with a flourish. “Is _this_ the acorn you seek?”

The tree bent, gently plucking the acorn from his hand. “My joy soars to new heights indeed! I am reunited with my seed! As I promised, here it be. I hope its magic pleases thee. Keep this branch of mine with thee, and pass throughout the forest free.” A branch shook, and fell from the sylvan’s frame.

Daylen picked up the branch, feeling magic surge through it. “Hey, I think I can use this as a staff!”

The tree nodded. “I wish thee well, my mortal friend. Thou brought my sadness to an end. May the sunlight find you, thy days be long, thy winters kind, and thy roots be strong.”

“So what now?” Alistair asked. “On to those ruins?”

“Back to the Dalish camp, actually,” Daylen replied.

“That’s a good idea,” Leliana said. “They should know about the location of the werewolves’ lair.”

“And we should tell Athras about Danyla,” Alistair mused.

“Mostly, I need to talk with Zathrian,” Daylen said. “I need answers. He’s so convinced the werewolves are simply mindless beasts acting on a hunter’s instinct. The fact that they can talk coherently means that isn’t the case.”

—ROTG—

“So what’s going on with these werewolves, Keeper?” Daylen asked. “I found Danyla. She had turned, but she was capable of speech. Coherent speech. She told me the werewolves had overcome the curse.”

“That seems unlikely,” Zathrian replied dismissively. “They are savage beasts. Even if they could speak, I doubt they would have anything worthwhile to say.”

Daylen scowled. “So I what, hallucinated the conversations I had with them?” Zathrian remained silent, and after a few moments, Daylen went on, crossing his arms over his chest. “They seem to have some grudge against your people.”

“The same grudge they hold against any who trespass in the forest, I imagine. We also killed many of them during the attack. The werewolves are unimportant. It is Witherfang whom you must seek out. And if they keep you from him, then your course is clear.”

“I want you to know, I don’t appreciate being sent as an errand boy,” Daylen said. “Nor do I enjoy being treated like a child, or having information withheld from me. If you won’t answer the important questions, let’s try a new one. Do you know anything about a werewolf named Swiftrunner?”

“I was not aware they have names. But no, I know nothing about any Swiftrunner.”

“So you have nothing to add to what I already know about the werewolves, then. Despite the fact that they sprang a coordinated ambush on a clan skilled at hunting and forestry and have managed to evade your attempts to locate their lair.”

“Understand my words,” Zathrian hissed. “They are mindless beasts. They are not and will never be anything more than beasts. Find Witherfang. Retrieve his heart. That is your task.”

“Well, you’ve just been a ruddy font of knowledge,” Daylen sighed. “Thanks for nothing, Keeper.” Leaving the Keeper behind, he linked up with Alistair, who had just broken the news to Athras. The two found Leliana, who had just passed the ironbark the party had found on the way back to the camp to the clan’s craftsman.

“Was there any left on the fallen tree?” Varathorn asked.

“We took as much as we could,” Leliana replied. “We could not pry any more loose, and lacked the tools to obtain more.”

“With this much to spare, I could make you a bow, or a breastplate,” the craftsman was offering.

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Leliana said. “This is for your clan!”

“Take the bow, Leliana,” Daylen chimed in. “We’re going into their lair, next. We’ll need every edge we can get.”

Leliana seemed unsure. “Dalish bows are known far and wide for their excellence...”

Varathorn puffed himself up. “It would be my pleasure to make the bow that kills Witherfang.”

“Then do so, but don’t use more than you have to,” Daylen said. “I won’t turn down help when offered, but we did this for the Dalish.”

—ROTG—

“Zathrian’s a ruddy liar,” Daylen spat as they left the camp again. “He knows more than he’s letting on.”

Alistair rubbed at his chin. “Why do you think he’s lying?”

“He can’t be _that_ far in denial about the nature of these werewolves. Leliana mentioned that most of the clan realized that they were facing an intelligent enemy. He’s been awfully insistent that they’re nothing but beasts.”

“People like that are the ones who most likely have something to hide,” Leliana said darkly.

“Right,” Daylen agreed. “And Keepers are chosen for their wisdom and leadership skills. He’s got a grudge here. Something personal.”

The next few hours passed quickly. The group found more of the gravesites and managed to kill the revenants with minimal injuries, although Daylen found himself knocked out again and had to heal a nasty broken wrist Alistair picked up in the attempt. More unique pieces of armor were found on the bodies, and Daylen began setting them aside, realizing they were part of a set.

Eventually, they found their way back to the mist barrier that had prevented them from advancing earlier in the day. Daylen held the staff the Grand Oak had given them aloft and channeled a burst of magic through it, and the mist dissipated, blowing away on a wind that seemed to have no direction.

“All right,” Alistair admitted. “That was pretty impressive.”

“Agreed,” Daylen said, before tilting his head as Cupcake growled. “Oh, I am _so sick of hearing howling_!”

Swiftrunner bounded forward, pulling up short. Daylen took a moment to congratulate himself for not flinching as the werewolf loomed over him. “The forest has not been vigilant enough. Still you come. You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!”

“You don’t actually expect me to leave, do you?” Daylen asked. “Really, I’m trying to talk, here. I don’t believe the story Zathrian is trying to feed me.”

“You came even though we warned you not to,” Swiftrunner went on, clearly either not caring what Daylen had to say or just not hearing him. “You are as treacherous as the Dalish. We will not allow harm to come to Witherfang!”

“Ah-hah!” Daylen said, seizing on the phrase. “Why call the Dalish treacherous if you ambushed them?”

“They deserved no less!” The werewolf growled, before continuing. “You are an intruder in our home! You come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well. Here Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!” He lunged, and Daylen acted on reflex, batting him on the nose with his staff. Swiftrunner bounced back, yipping angrily, and three more werewolves joined the fight. One fell immediately as Leliana’s arrow found its mark, and another lunged at Alistair. The warrior dropped to one knee, bearing the werewolf on his shield, grunting as he let the beast’s own momentum carry it over his head. The werewolf tumbled past, and Sten jammed his greatsword through the creature’s chest, twisting the blade and ending the werewolf.

Daylen and Morrigan, to their credit, had managed to set Swiftrunner on fire and critically injure the other werewolf with bursts of ice and lightning. Daylen advanced, aiming to end the fight with a fireball, only to jump back as a brilliant white wolf landed between him and Swiftrunner.

“Witherfang,” Daylen hissed, noticing a pattern of vines wrapped around the wolf’s legs. He would have continued, but the wolves bounded away before he could say anything more. “Anyone injured?”

Alistair worked out the shoulder he had used to toss the werewolf around. “Not particularly. Anybody got a…” he watched as Daylen trotted over to another gravestone. “Daylen, please tell me you’re not about to mess with that.”

“I’m not about to mess with this,” Daylen said, scratching at the warding symbols on the gravestone.

“You are literally messing with it right now,” Alistair sighed, drawing his sword.

The revenant appeared in front of Alistair, facing Daylen. It didn’t notice him until Alistair rammed his sword through the back of the creature’s neck.

“Well, that was easy,” Leliana mused as the revenant fell, dead.

“Is that all four?” Alistair asked, watching as Daylen pulled a pair of gauntlets off of the revenant. “Does that complete the set?”

“Looks like,” Daylen replied. “This is very finely made armor.”

“Now, a follow-up question,” Alistair continued. “Is it even vaguely close to fitting any of us?”

“Sten might be able to wear it,” Daylen said. The Qunari shrugged in response. “I guess next time we make camp. Not a good time to change your clothes out here.” At a snarling noise Daylen sighed tiredly. “See?”

“We are invaded!” A werewolf called. “Intruders have deceived their way into the forest’s heart! Fall back to the ruins! Protect the Lady!”

“The Lady?” Daylen echoed as the werewolves sprinted away. “ _Why can nobody give me any straight answers_?”

“I think this is it,” Alistair said, watching as the werewolves retreated into a crumbling stone building. “Werewolf city. Kind of flea heaven, isn’t it?” Cupcake whined, and Daylen reached down, scratching him behind the ears.

—ROTG—

Daylen sniggered as he read the letter he had found in the ruins. “Is this serious? A three-pound sausage?”

“You would be astounded at the delicacy of the innuendos that are often used in intimate correspondence,” Leliana said, a grin tugging at her lips. “Do you think it’s safe to be in here? I thought I heard a wall crumbling off in the distance.”

Tucking the letter away, Daylen looked around the ruin. “Certainly is a…place. We’re committed, though. We find Witherfang or we don’t get the support of the Dalish.” Daylen felt a draft coming from his left and examined the wall a little closer. “Why would there be an archway with a solid wall here?” Placing a hand against the wall, he began feeling for a catch. “Please be a secret door, please be a secret door, please be a secret door…” The door moved back a fraction of an inch, before sliding out of the way. “Yay!” [1] Daylen’s victorious smile faded as he saw a pair of armed skeletons moving towards him. “Oh dear.”

One of Leliana’s arrows clattered off a skeleton, and the archer narrowed her eyes. “By the Maker…”

Daylen sprayed a burst of frost from his staff, and Sten barreled forward, shattering one skeleton with a pommel strike, and then the other with a smashing overhand blow.

“More werewolves!” Alistair shouted, the first to react as a pair of the beasts bounded up a set of stairs from deeper in the ruins, bringing up his shield. Morrigan sidestepped him, hitting the one in front with a bolt of lightning that sent it into a wild tumble, and Alistair stabbed the werewolf in the side as it tumbled past him. Twisting the blade and wrenching it free, he parried two strikes from the other wolf before Morrigan hit it with a disorienting hex. The warrior smacked the wolf in the face with his shield as its guard dropped, and the beast hit the floor, meeting its end as Alistair’s sword split hide and severed arteries.

“Let’s keep moving,” Daylen urged, looking around the ruins. “The longer we’re in here, the more likely we are to get surrounded.”

Twenty minutes later, Alistair nudged his fellow Warden in the side. “Daylen…I have to ask, do you know where you’re going?”

“Do you?” Daylen challenged. “To answer your question – no. I have no idea where I’m going. I don’t even know where I’ve been. I am completely sodding turned around and I have _no idea which way is out_.”

“Easy,” Leliana said soothingly, pointing down a web-lined corridor. “We have not explored that way yet.”

Daylen looked uneasy. “I know. I was trying to avoid that way. The webs. The caverns under the Circle Tower had giant spiders in them, and they made webs a lot like those.”

“Well, let’s hope they aren’t giant spiders, then,” Alistair replied brightly.

Two minutes later, as Alistair pulled his sword out of a dead spider’s abdomen, he turned around to find a web-covered Daylen glaring at him. “All right, fine! So there were giant spiders!”

“This shite is going to take forever to get rid of,” Daylen seethed, trying to comb some of it out of his beard. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

Alistair nodded. “I’m satisfied. Leliana, are you satisfied?”

“Not for years,” the rogue said with a straight face.

Daylen snorted out a laugh in spite of himself, before shaking his head. “All right, you got me. Come on, everyone.”

They pushed deeper into the ruins, fighting werewolves, spiders, and the odd possessed corpse. Besides the amount of mold, dirt, and unidentifiable muck in the ruins, they were in surprisingly good condition, considering their apparent age.

“Anybody else noticed we haven’t had anything try to eat us for a bit?” Daylen asked aloud.

“There’s something else down here,” Leliana whispered. “I hear…breathing.” Daylen nodded, before stepping out into the next room in the ruins, finding himself in a long, high-ceilinged hall. He went to take another step, only for Leliana to yank him back by the back of his robes. “There’s a trap there,” she hissed. She knelt, drawing a dagger and using it to press down on a pressure plate hidden under the thick layer of indescribable filth that coated the floors of the ruins.

A gout of flame blasted from a hidden fixture on the wall, and Daylen flinched. “Maker’s breath,” he gasped. “That would have cooked me.”

“Better let me go first,” Leliana said. “I know what to look for.” She disarmed three more traps within a few steps of each other, and the sound of breathing grew louder as they slowly moved into the hall.

“What smells?” Daylen asked, wrinkling his nose.

“What, you want a list?” Alistair replied. “The muck on the floor, the muck on the walls, the muck on the ceiling, the spiders, the corpses, the…” he sniffed, and frowned. “I smell it now. That’s not darkspawn, and it’s not a werewolf.”

“Corpses nearby,” Daylen muttered, spotting a dead dwarf and two armored figures lying ahead. “Fresh ones, not possessed.”

“Up there!” Leliana shouted, nocking an arrow. Daylen looked up, and this time around managed to dodge before a dragon landed where he had been standing moments before. Leliana’s arrow thumped into its hide but failed to penetrate properly, and the group spread out, trying to keep away from the beast’s snapping jaws.

Lightning crackled across the dragon’s side as Morrigan’s spell impacted. Besides crisping the flesh of one of its wings, all she accomplished was making the dragon angry. Daylen intervened with a burst of frost, and as the dragon reared, Leliana loosed another arrow, catching the dragon just above the shoulder joint and leaving one of its wings hanging uselessly.

The dragon spun to face the latest threat and roared at the group, the deafening noise echoing in the long hall. Daylen clutched at his ears and Cupcake whimpered, and the dragon spat a glob of fire at Leliana, who managed to roll out of the way before it impacted. Sten’s greatsword sank into the creature’s flank, and the dragon thrashed, smacking the giant warrior with its uninjured wing and knocking him flat on his back.

Then it leapt upon him, its jaws snapping at his face.

“ _Atash Qunari_!” Sten roared from beneath the dragon’s bulk, his powerful arms coiling around the creature’s neck as it tried to rip him to pieces. He jerked, and the dragon lost its footing, and the two thrashed about the floor in a test of strength.

“I’m afraid to cast a spell for fear of hitting Sten,” Daylen said.

Leliana had an arrow nocked and drawn and was tracking the wrestling pair with a sour look. “I might hit him.”

Alistair charged the wrestling pair, only to get batted aside by the dragon’s floundering wing. He stood up, shaking his head at Daylen. “I can’t get close!”

There was a crunching noise, and the dragon gurgled, its mighty paws thrashing in the air. The group watched in horror and fascination as it slowly fell still, and Sten stood, bloodied, panting heavily, but victorious.

Daylen was staring, openmouthed. “Did everyone else just see that?”

“Yes, yes I did,” Alistair replied.

“Sten, you just _strangled a dragon to death_.”

“It is done,” Sten replied. “Shall we move on?”

“Remind me never to wrestle with him,” Alistair muttered to Daylen.

“Nevarran dragon hunters would work in teams,” Leliana said to Sten. “I am impressed you managed to defeat one singlehandedly.”

“I was not alone,” Sten replied. “I struck the killing blow, but the rest of you assisted.”

“Yes, but you took your own strength against the dragon’s. That is unusual.”

“Perhaps for you,” Sten said quietly.

Daylen nudged Leliana as Alistair examined the bodies. “Don’t dragons typically have hoards of some sort? Or is that just in stories?”

“They do often collect shiny objects, yes,” Leliana admitted.

“Well, I figured either that was the case or I was imagining _that_ ,” Daylen said, pointing at a pile of gold in the corner of the hall.

The Warden dug around in the hoard, finding a hefty amount of coin, a handful of semiprecious stones, and a bow that Alistair slung across his back with a nod. Alistair had found a bandolier of flasks on the dwarf’s body, each containing oddly-colored liquids.

“Any ideas what these are?” Daylen asked.

“Weapons,” Alistair replied. “I don’t know _what_ they are, exactly, but I know that you can throw them and the contents will injure whatever they touch.”

“So where to from here?” Daylen mused, looking around the hall and looping the bandolier over his torso. The walls appeared half-caved in, giant roots having forced their way through the stone walls and archways.

Alistair held out a makeshift torch, and Daylen lit it with a quick burst of flame, the warrior sweeping the torch about to see the walls more closely. The flickering light illuminated a hefty hole in the wall, and Sten ran a gauntlet along the edge, coming away with a clump of fur.

“The werewolves went this way,” the warrior pronounced, before dropping the fur. “Let us continue.”

The hole became a tunnel, and Daylen eyed the torches planted along the sides, growing ever more confused as they moved along the tunnel’s length. “Curious,” he said, gesturing at the torches. “Werewolves, placing torches?” He prodded at one, his eyebrows furrowing. “Torches fed by runic magic, no less?”

“Where would they have gotten those?” Alistair asked. “Can werewolves even do magic?”

“I hope not.” Daylen eyed the base of the torches, looking closely. “No claw marks of any sort. Someone else placed these here.”

Leliana shivered. “Let’s go,” she urged. “Let us not linger.”

Several more skeletons and a handful of spiders put up a decent fight against the group as they pushed on, and Daylen heard snuffling noises more than once. Then he turned the corner and found himself looking through – not at, but _through_ – an elven woman.

“Ma halani! Se vara lassa’val! Nae mal!”

“Can you understand her?” Leliana asked. “She seems distressed.”

“I don’t speak that much elvish,” Daylen replied, watching as she ran away. “I didn’t understand any of that. And even if I did, whatever that is, it’s not a live elf. She probably couldn’t hear me anyway.”

“Should we…follow her?” Alistair asked.

“Do we have a choice?” Morrigan sighed. “There are no side corridors.”

Daylen noted the increasing amount of humanoid bones on the floor as the party entered another hall. Thankfully, there was no dragon in this one, but there was another spectral elf.

“A child, this time,” Morrigan said. “Most likely of equal uselessness.”

“Mamae?” the specter said. “Mamae na mara san!” Gibbering in elvish, the child ran back several steps, heading for the opposite door.

“Not like we could harm him, even if we wanted to,” Daylen shrugged. “I just hope it can’t hurt us.” He heard a rattling noise, and the numerous bones around them began to come together. “Oh, why do I say things?”

Almost a dozen skeletons brought themselves together, drawing rusty weapons from the thick layer of detritus and muck that covered the floor.

“Anyone got any ideas?” Alistair asked as the skeletons advanced. “Daylen?” He looked around. “Daylen? Where’d he go?”

Daylen, to his credit, was most definitely not screaming like a girl as he ran away from a half-dozen skeletons that were chasing him with drawn weapons.

 _Externally_.

Inside, he was curled up in a corner, sobbing and sucking his thumb. Daylen was desperately trying to remember what one of the older Senior Enchanters at the tower had mentioned about glyphs and trapping spells. Most of what came to mind from those memories was checking out one of the better-built enchanters who had worked as an assistant. He had never had a sovereign handy to check, but Daylen was convinced he could have bounced it off that behind.

Fumbling with the looted bandolier, Daylen ripped a flask filled with green liquid free, before lobbing it over his shoulder. He heard the glass shattering and risked a glance to see the first three skeletons begin steaming as the contents of the flask began eating away at their bones.

“Note to self,” Daylen mused, spinning on his heel and managing to catch all but one of the skeletons with a cone of frost. “Don’t get the green shite on you.” He hit the remaining skeleton with a bolt of arcane energy, and the skeleton stumbled, before the bones separated, clattering to the floor. Daylen ran past the bunched-up skeletons, still frozen to the floor, and dropped another green flask in his wake, heading back for the hall.

He arrived in time to see Alistair and Sten handily defeating the remaining skeletons, as Leliana struggled with one of her own, her bow discarded several yards away and her hands wrapped around the bony – so to speak – wrists of the skeleton. Morrigan was healing a nasty gash she had picked up as Leliana kicked the skeleton in the knee joint, separating the bone and dropping the skeleton to the ground. She stomped on the creature’s skull, and it twitched once more and went still.

“Welcome back,” Alistair said archly. “You had to use the privy?”

“I’m sorry, I only had half of them chasing me,” Daylen shot back, poking his head into a side room and finding it empty besides a sarcophagus. “I don’t wear armor, my options are limited!”

“Are you really about to defile that grave?” Alistair asked.

“The last four I’ve defiled would make you think I’d leave this one alone?” Daylen replied. “We’re short on funds and equipment, Alistair. You think we can afford to be nice?” Alistair sighed, but helped him move the lid, revealing a set of dusty elven bones clutching a tablet. Daylen eyed the tablet, before gently removing it and shutting the lid. Gently blowing a layer of dust off the tablet, he examined it. “I’m no expert on this, but it might be worth something to the right collector. Looks like some sort of ritual.”

“Daylen, this might be the wrong time to bring this up, but I’m hearing howling off in the distance,” Leliana interjected.

Twisting halls and half-collapsed stairs led them further into the ruins, and the Warden quietly hoped that the ruins were stable enough that they wouldn’t be blocked in by a sudden cave-in.

A handful of skeletons ambushed them as they passed what looked to have once been a storage room, and Daylen rooted around in some half-empty crates, finding a handful of elfroot and little else of use.

“This place has been picked awfully clean,” Daylen sighed, leaning on a broken stone altar. “Why can’t we find some decent loot for a change?”

“That dragon’s hoard didn’t count, I suppose,” Leliana challenged.

Daylen paused a moment. “All right, you’ve got me there. Maybe some decent loot we don’t have to face something that wants to eat me, then.” Spotting a glint of glass and red on the floor, Daylen’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone, _get back_.”

“What’s wrong?” Alistair asked, obligingly taking a few steps back.

“You remember those revenants?” Daylen asked rhetorically. “Those were bound to the graves. This might be a revenant bound to a vial. I’ve read about them in the past. I have no idea who binds them, how, or why they leave them lying around in places like this rather than bury them in stone where they can’t be found. But they’re dangerous. Keep alert.”

“You’re going to touch it, knowing what’s in it?” Alistair asked.

“Maybe a little,” Daylen admitted, picking up the gem.

Then he immediately went rigid, his eyes wide and his teeth clenched. Visions, images, and memories that Daylen had never had were flooding through his mind at a disorienting speed, and he sensed a presence in his hand that carried a distinct note of alarm, followed by fear. Daylen almost dropped the gem before managing to regain control of his senses, and immediately put up as strong a mental defense as he could, keeping the spirit trapped in the gem at bay.

“Not a revenant,” Daylen gasped after a moment, wondering what the coppery taste in his mouth was. Holding up the gem, he spoke. “I am sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.” He got a profound sense of loneliness from the gem, and more images flashed through his mind.

“What is that thing?” Alistair asked.

“I’m…not sure,” Daylen admitted. “It’s ancient. It’s a spirit, I think. Or something like one, it used to be human.” He got a sense of mild offense from the gem, before another handful of images flashed through his mind. “Oh. My apologies. He was elven. Can’t remember his name, but he was an elven mage…who wore armor.”

“Must have been tough, then,” Alistair mused.

“He…sweet Maker, that must have been _really boring_.”

“What?”

“He’s been here for years. Centuries, even. He fought the Tevinters!” Daylen squinted, trying to make sense of secondhand memories from someone who barely remembered it to begin with. “And he’s been stuck here, alone. I think this was a sort of…mausoleum, or memorial, where the honored dead were buried and people came to pay respects.” More came through, and Daylen felt his gorge rise as visions of battle played out. “And something killed both the Tevinters and the elves.”

“Darkspawn?” Alistair asked.

“He doesn’t remember,” Daylen said sourly. “Which is unfortunate, because if there’s something _worse_ out here than angry elves or angry Tevinter mages, I really want to know about it before it tries to kill me. He essentially jumped ship on his own body using this gem, hoping that someone would come to rescue him.”

“Clearly, no such person did,” Morrigan pointed out.

“Either that or whoever did was a complete arse, and left him here. What are you, exactly?” He said to the gem. “Mage, warrior, or both?” There was a pause. “The fuck is an Arcane Warrior?”

The rest of the party was rather unsettled when Daylen began laughing maniacally. “Yes, I’ll help you.”

“Daylen, don’t make a deal with that,” Alistair urged quietly. “It might possess you.”

“I’m not making any deals for that,” Daylen said, approaching the altar. The images the Gem sent to him depicted a clear question – did he still want the knowledge to become an Arcane Warrior? “Yes, give me your memories. Such traditions should be preserved.”

The memories flooded into his mind like icy water, and Daylen squeezed his eyes shut as information poured into his brain. Like half-lost thoughts and hazy recollections, they were vague on the specifics but carried enough details for Daylen to understand the basic mechanics.

Daylen cracked an eye open. “Am I dead?”

—ROTG—

_The Long Walk  
When our people left Tevinter, we had nothing except the knowledge that for the first time in countless centuries, we were free._

_It was Shartan's dream that one day we we would have our own homeland, where we could live as we chose. After the long struggle that claimed the lives of many, even Shartan himself, we were granted the Dales. And though the Dales were to the south of the land of Orlais, and a long way off from Tevinter, it mattered little. We were going home. And so we walked._

_We called our journey the Long Walk, for that was what it was. We walked with what little we had on our backs. Some walked without shoes, for they had none. Whole families, women with infants, the old and young alike--all of them made their way across the land on foot. And if one of our people could no longer walk, we carried him, or sometimes left him behind._

_Many perished along the way. Some died of exhaustion, others simply gave up and fell by the wayside. A great number were set upon by human bandits, even though we had few possessions. Along the way, a growing number began to bemoan the decision to leave Tevinter. "At least in Tevinter," they said, "we had food, and water, and shelter. What do we have here? Nothing but the open sky and the prospect of the never-ending road ahead." Some turned back toward Tevinter. But most of us continued walking._

_And the gods rewarded those of us who did not waver by bringing us to the Dales. Our people called the new city Halamshiral--"the end of the journey." And for a time, it was home._

_\--As told by Gisharel, keeper of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish elves_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1 Pretty much the only good line from Age of Ultron. [ return to text ]


	6. The Lady of the Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping things up in the Brecelian Forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, folks, I've been really busy at work.

_Blood Magic: The Forbidden School  
The ancient Tevinters did not originally consider blood magic a school of its own. Rather, they saw it as a means to achieve greater power in any school of magic. The name, of course, refers to the fact that magic of this type uses life, specifically in the form of blood, instead of mana. It was common practice, at one time, for a magister to keep a number of slaves on hand so that, should he undertake the working of a spell that was physically beyond his abilities, he could use the blood of his slaves to bolster the casting._

_Over time, however, the Imperium discovered types of spells that could only be worked by blood. Although lyrium will allow a mage to send his conscious mind into the Fade, blood would allow him to find the sleeping minds of others, view their dreams, and even influence or dominate their thoughts. Just as treacherous, blood magic allows the Veil to be opened completely so that demons may physically pass through it into our world._

_The rise of the Chant of Light and the subsequent fall of the old Imperium has led to blood magic being all but stamped out—as it should be, for it poses nearly as great a danger to those who would practice it as to the world at large._

_—From The Four Schools: A Treatise, by First Enchanter Josephus._

—ROTG—

Daylen cracked an eye open. “Am I dead?” He looked around, relieved to still be in control of his own body. “Huh. Who knew? I’m all right!”

“Glad to hear it,” Alistair said. “Now can we go? I’m getting nervous just standing here.”

“One more thing to do,” Daylen replied, rolling the gem in his palm. “If you still had your memories, I would consider asking you to accompany me on my quest, but…you have earned an end. Dareth shiral, my friend. May you find peace among your gods.” He set the gem on the altar, feeling joy radiating from the gem moments before it shattered.

“May the Maker watch over his soul,” Leliana said quietly.

The group explored more storage rooms nearby, finding more scummy growth and little of use.

“Well, this has been a bust,” Daylen said, standing up from examining some half-buried urns and turning to leave. Hearing a crunch under his feet, he looked down to see a glass vial broken beneath his boot, with a scrap of paper visible and what looked like liquid shadow pouring out. “Oh, _balls_.”

“Revenant!” Alistair called, moments before the revenant’s sword impacted his shield, shattering the wood and breaking his arm. The warrior managed to weakly parry two more strikes from the revenant, before Sten intervened, levering the revenant’s greatsword away from Alistair and smashing in the side of its helmet with a pommel strike.

Daylen circled around to the left of the revenant even as Morrigan went right, the two mages opening up with blasts of ice and lightning, respectively. Daylen’s ice did little to visibly injure the revenant, but it froze the joints of the armor, providing Sten openings for several brutal strikes, even as Leliana’s arrows thunked into various exposed points on the revenant’s body. Morrigan’s lightning crackled over the revenant’s armor, and just as the revenant managed to break free of the icy grip, Sten shoved the revenant back and Cupcake lunged, ripping the creature’s throat out.

“Alistair, let me see your arm,” Daylen insisted, as the warrior clutched the broken limb.

“You’re going to have to help me, it hurts even to move it,” Alistair hissed. He groaned in pain as Daylen carefully extended the limb, and the mage winced in sympathy.

“Can we get your bracer off?” Alistair nodded, wincing as he tugged at the buckles on the bracer. Daylen grimaced as he saw the lump on Alistair’s arm. “Wow, that must have been some hit.”

“The shield took most of it, but that thing broke right through it,” Alistair said, grunting as Daylen turned the arm over. Daylen extended the limb properly, before knitting the bone together. “It’ll be tender a while yet, but the bone is healed.”

Alistair strapped the bracer back on, nodding as he flexed the hand. “Thanks, Daylen.” The warrior turned and looked at the dead revenant, before kicking the corpse in the head. “That was for my arm!” Picking up the revenant’s targe shield, he hefted it, before shrugging and slinging it across his back. “It’ll do for now.”

“We’ll have to backtrack, head the other way down that hall,” Leliana said, pointing out the door.

Five minutes later, they found their next issue. “Is there any room in this ruin this isn’t filled with something bizarre?” Daylen said, kneeling next to what appeared to be a small spring bubbling out of the floor. Fishing out a small earthen jug from the fountain, he filled a water skin, before taking a sip. “Seems to be clean. It’s fresh, rather cool.” He took another sip. “Tasty, actually. Anyone thirsty?” Leliana nodded, and accepted the skin as Daylen closed his eyes, feeling for gaps in the Veil.

Leliana looked around. “It certainly doesn’t make sense, springs don’t typically happen in this sort of terrain.”

Daylen shrugged, opening his eyes. “I’m guessing magic.”

Alistair tried the large double doors that obstructed their way forward. “These aren’t barred, but I can’t budge them alone.”

“Maybe we can force it open.” Spying an altar built into the wall, Daylen’s eyes widened. “Wait.” He pulled the tablet he had looted – er, reclaimed – from the sarcophagus, and tilted it, examining the carvings. “Unless I miss my guess, there’s some sort of ritual here. Involves paying respects to the dead here.”

“And you intend to perform this ritual?” Alistair asked. “Aren’t we short on time?”

“Alistair, for all we know this is the only way forward. Let’s just see what happens.” Consulting the tablet, Daylen filled the jug with water, before approaching the altar. Placing the jug on the altar, he knelt and touched his forehead to the ground as depicted on the tablet. Daylen focused on how he merely wanted to pass through and pay his respects to the honored dead, and he felt a sense of rightness and approval surrounding him. Checking the tablet again, Daylen took a single sip of the water from the jug, before returning to the fountain and pouring the water back into the fountain.

Then the jug shattered, and Daylen hissed as the pieces fell into the pool.

“What happened?” Leliana asked.

“I don’t know,” Daylen admitted, checking his hand for cuts. “It just broke. Not sure why, it just shattered.”

“The door is open,” Morrigan pointed out.

Daylen grinned, feeling a touch smug. “I told you it’d work.”

The group moved past the door, and Daylen led them through the rounded chamber beyond, seeing multiple sarcophagi and Avvar-inspired statues around the room’s central platform, which was raised above eye level and featured a single open sarcophagus in a place of honor. “A historian would go nuts for this place,” he murmured, blowing a layer of dust off one of the sarcophagi. “These runes alone could take a year to fully understand.”[1]

“Daylen,” Leliana said quietly. “I see another one of those specters ahead. Up on the platform.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Daylen said distractedly. “These were elven ruins. Why are there Avvar statues here?” He wiped more grime from the sarcophagus he was looking at. “These runes are Tevinter, I recognize that much. Why are they here?”

“Perhaps the Tevinters sought to defile this place,” Morrigan suggested. “Does it matter?”

“What, I can’t indulge my curiosity?” Morrigan sighed in response, and Daylen gestured to Leliana, the archer following him closely as they circled the room.

“Viran se lan’aan? Ir annala for ros,” the specter babbled, keeping the open sarcophagus between itself and the group as they came up the stairs. “Nae! Ga rahn s’dael! Ga rahn!”

Daylen struggled to remember what Elvish he had picked up at the Circle. “You need…help? Are you lost here, spirit?”

“Ir emah’la shal! Ir emah’la shal!”

“Look out!” Alistair shouted as a shade leapt upon him, his sword biting into the shade’s arm as it lunged. Another attempted to pounce on Sten, only for the Qunari’s boot to smash directly into the spirit’s face, sending it flying off the platform.

Daylen was lining up a shot with an arcane bolt ready when the spectral woman wrapped her hands around his neck. The spell fizzled as he jerked back. Surprisingly, she could in fact strangle him, and was making a fair attempt at it when Cupcake began gnawing at her hamstring, and Morrigan jammed the tip of her staff into the back of the specter’s head and discharged a full blast of lightning into the spirit’s body. Luckily, Daylen was unharmed, but the specter dissipated under the attack. The Warden coughed, rubbing his throat, and nodded his thanks to the other mage.

Alistair had finished off the first shade by the time the second made its way back up the stairs, under fire from Leliana the entire way – only for Sten to boot it in the face again, sending it flying off the platform again. This time, Daylen managed to get his spell properly cast, the shade twitching and shuddering under the electrical assault. It drew itself to its full height, and Leliana’s arrow slammed home in the middle of what passed for its face. The shade dissipated, and Daylen rubbed his neck.

“Getting sick of this,” he muttered. “I hope rounding up the mages and dwarves will be easier than this.”

“One bit of good news,” Alistair reported, looking into the open sarcophagus. “This breastplate looks like it belongs to the armor set we’ve been collecting.

“Oh good,” Daylen said. “Grab it. That should complete the set. But on to business. Anyone see an exit to this blasted place?”

Alistair was giving his fellow Warden a tired look as they doubled back. “Only way forward, eh?”

“Fine,” Daylen conceded. “I didn’t know, all right?” He paused, tilting his head in thought for a few moments. “It’s strange. In the past day or two, we’ve killed more revenants, shades, and possessed corpses than most Templars will ever see.”

“Life of a Warden,” Alistair replied. “We see some pretty strange stuff out there.”

“Yeah, but I just hope we survive it,” Daylen said as Morrigan opened the next door. He spotted over a dozen skeleton archers waiting, and his eyes bugged out. “Get back!” The skeletons let their arrows fly, and Daylen grabbed Morrigan, yanking her behind him. A glittering, translucent shield sprang up around them, deflecting the arrows.

“Don’t charge them!” Leliana said, drawing her bow. “Stay back here!”

Alistair drew the bow he had slung over his shoulder and accepted a handful of arrows from Leliana, dropping to one knee with the arrows on the floor in front of him.

“What is this?” Morrigan asked, touching the barrier Daylen had up.

“I’m not sure,” Daylen admitted. “I had an arcane bolt ready, but I must have miscast the spell. Seems to have worked.”

“Sten, can you give us some cover?” Alistair asked, handing his shield to the giant. Sten nodded, moving into a crouch and holding the shield in front of him. The two archers stood behind him, firing at the skeletons from cover.

“Wait, Leliana,” Daylen called, advancing with Morrigan behind him. “There are more of those pressure plates here!”

Leliana jerked back, her boot scraping the edge of one and triggering a blast of flame. “By the Maker. They’re everywhere.”

Daylen lobbed a fireball, knocking several skeletons off their feet. Alistair scored a lucky shot, separating a skull from a spine and dropping the skeleton in a clattering heap. Leliana put an arrow through another skeleton’s eye socket, and it jerked around, before continuing to fire arrows. Daylen scowled, hitting the skeleton with a bolt of lightning and dropping it. Leliana nodded her thanks, before nocking another arrow.

As the last skeleton fell, Leliana knelt, disarming a pressure plate. Her fingers danced over another plate, and she set a copper on the disarmed trap, before moving on. “Don’t step on any plate without a copper on it,” she instructed, working on another one.

They slowly made their way across the room, and Daylen looked over a pair of corpses. “Nothing of interest on this one,” Daylen said quietly. “No way of identifying who this knight was.”

“What about the other one?” Alistair asked, testing the handle on the next door.

“A journal,” Daylen said, flipping through the musty book. “ _The riders follow after every town, ever since my lucky break deciphering the story_ ,” he read aloud. “ _I see it now, how they take the locals closest to me, preventing rest or kinship. I thought this a road to glory, but I am dogged at every step by his talons. Gaxkang: curse his name and the day I heard it_.” Daylen looked up. “Well, that’s ominous.”

Alistair drew his sword, scanning the room for threats. “You think whatever killed him is this Gaxkang? Or that it’s still around?”

“I hope not.” He nodded to Alistair, and the warrior opened the next door, bringing his shield up. The warrior gestured them forward, and Alistair and Sten led the way into the next chamber, Leliana following closely. “More Avvar statues,” Daylen said, looking at the giant stone figures above them. “Why does the architecture in ruins make no sense?”

“Um, Daylen,” Alistair said, having moved ahead in the chamber and down a set of stairs. “I think you might want to take a look at this.”

“What is it?” Daylen asked, finding Alistair in the midst of a rough, half-abandoned magical workshop. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

Alistair gestured at the tables full of books and equipment. “What is all this?”

“Because I have any idea?” Daylen retorted. “This is a mess.” He nudged a sheaf of papers away from a stack of books. “Nothing good, I would guess, if whoever this was set up shop in here.”

“Certainly sets the mood, doesn’t it,” Alistair mumbled, gently moving a set of blood-spattered bones from on top of a journal. The Warden opened the book, before tilting it one way, then the other. “This is either written in code, some foreign language, or with the absolute worst handwriting I have ever seen.” Daylen didn’t answer, and Alistair nudged his friend, only for the Warden to collapse, his body rigid.

“Trouble!” Leliana barked, nocking an arrow. She fired it at a robed corpse that stumbled momentarily, before swirling its arms in the air, a blast of lightning nearly searing the rogue as she ducked out of the way. The warriors charged, before slowing as they approached.

“Move!” Morrigan shouted, lobbing a bolt of lightning at the creature before following up with a series of entropic hexes.

“Careful,” Daylen rasped, regaining control of his body as the paralysis spell ran its course. “That’s an abomination. Arcane horror. Alistair needs to hit it with a Templar ability.”

“What?” Morrigan asked, calling down elemental frost on the horror.

“Alistair!” Daylen shouted. “If you can cleanse that thing, do it!”

Alistair ducked a clawing strike from the horror, before thrusting both hands into the air and calling down a cleansing strike on the possessed corpse. The creature stumbled, caught in the backlash of its mana being drained away, and Sten pressed the advantage, his greatsword snapping one of the horror’s arms.

Daylen stumbled forward, trying to sort out his limbs, and watched as Leliana flanked left, sinking arrow after arrow into the arcane horror’s body. Then he saw the horror thrust its good arm into the air and recognized the magic swirling around its working hand.

After letting a heartfelt expletive slip, Daylen thought fast. “Everyone, run! That thing’s about to call down a Tempest!” Despite not knowing what exactly he meant, both Sten and Alistair turned tail and sprinted back up the stairs as Daylen wove magic. “Plan has no reason to work but let’s try it,” he muttered, working a particular spell he never thought he would use in combat. “Yoink!” The horror stumbled, the tempest manifesting short of the target. Lightning crackled in an ovoid shape, arcing and hissing as electricity jumped from surface to surface across the workshop. Glass vessels shattered, pages caught fire, and wood smoldered.

“What did you do?” Alistair asked, unhooking the bow he had over his shoulder and opening fire even as Leliana put an arrow into the horror’s skull.

“Drained its mana, much like a Templar does,” Daylen said. “It’s a prank spell we used back at the Circle. Not really dangerous on its own, but if you want to make someone look foolish, let them weave a spell only to yank the mana out from under them.”

“You risked our lives on a prank spell?” Alistair asked incredulously.

The horror fell, no less than a dozen arrows sticking out of the wretched mess that passed for its face. Daylen shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

The party put out the fires that had started from the tempest before pushing on, finding a room full of corpses – these ones already re-killed.

“Oh yes, this bodes well,” Daylen groaned as they crept forward. “Let’s just find Witherfang and get out of here.”

“You’re still going to do what Zathrian wants, even though he’s lying to you?” Alistair asked.

“Look, he’s offered his help. The werewolves haven’t, and if we can end the curse by killing Witherfang, I’m willing to try it. Not happy about it, but I don’t see other options.” Daylen nodded to Alistair, who elbowed the next door open, leading the way through with Leliana and Sten close behind.

There were several werewolves waiting for them, most of them snarling angrily. The one in the lead, however, turned his back, holding his paws out to the others. “Stop! Brothers and sisters, be at ease!”

“Easy!” Daylen ordered, and to his great surprise Leliana and Sten lowered their weapons.

“We do not wish any more of our people hurt. I ask you this now, outsider: are you willing to parley?”

Daylen sighed. “I would rather have parleyed about sixty unnecessarily lost lives ago.”

“That is not an answer,” the werewolf replied.

“We’re talking now, aren’t we? So talk.”

“Not with me,” the werewolf said. “I have been sent to you on behalf of the Lady. She believes that you may not be aware of everything you should be.”

“That makes two of us,” Daylen snapped. “I’m willing to listen, if only because Zathrian has been withholding the truth from me.”

“That is not surprising,” the werewolf growled. “The Lady means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley in peace is an honest one.”

“And considering how many of your kind I’ve killed on my way down here, how do I know you’ll negotiate in honor? How do I know I won’t be walking into another ambush?”

The werewolf snarled. “What would be the point? You have already proven your strength. We have no wish to anger you further.”

“If you were willing to talk, why wait this long? Why now, with so many lives lost?”

“You show an unusual concern for us, outsider,” the werewolf remarked.

“I know full well many of you have regained some semblance of control, and some more than that. You’re living proof of that. Which only makes the question more pressing. Why are you only negotiating now that we’ve killed so many of you?”

“Swiftrunner did not think it would matter,” the werewolf said.

“Swiftrunner’s an idiot.”

The werewolf growled, but ignored Daylen’s grumbled reply. “The Lady disagrees with him, and since you have forced your way this far, we must acquiesce to her wishes.”

“Is your Lady Witherfang?”

“She is not Witherfang. But she can tell you of Witherfang, if you ask. But first you must agree to parley.”

“Well then, let’s parley. Take me to your Lady. We shall not harm you if you will do us the same courtesy.”

“Follow me,” the werewolf said, closing its mouth for the first time. Daylen was thrown by how few teeth it was showing for a change. “But I warn you, if you break your promise and harm her, I will come back from the Fade itself to see you pay.”

“A moment, then,” Daylen said, turning to his companions. “Unless they attack, _stay calm_. Got it?” Receiving agreements from his party, Daylen turned back to the werewolf. “After you.”

The werewolf’s face twisted, although Daylen was unsure whether the expression was confusion at his courtesy or anger at a perceived insult. Regardless, the werewolf loped through the next door, and Daylen flinched as he saw several sylvans waiting, flanked by werewolves. Leliana stumbled back as one of them snapped at her, and Alistair put a hand on her arm, giving her a reassuring nod as they approached the center of the chamber.

“Strange, that the trees would grow from this spot,” Morrigan remarked, eyeing the massive roots sprouting through the walls and into the high ceiling of the chamber.

“There’s a lot of magic here,” Daylen replied quietly. “Ancient and wild.” He spotted a werewolf with scorch marks along its flanks ahead, and smiled tightly. “Ah. Swiftrunner. No worse for wear, I hope?”

The werewolf roared a challenge, only for a vine-encrusted arm to touch his shoulder. Swiftrunner looked over, and Daylen raised an eyebrow at the sight.

A woman, clothed only in vines and strategically draped hair, smiled faintly at the werewolf, who visibly calmed. Her greenish skin was a momentary distraction, but when Daylen spotted coal-black eyes, he felt a cold sweat break out across his body.

“I bid you welcome, mortal. I am the Lady of the Forest.”

Daylen fought the urge to hyperventilate as her voice reverberated unnaturally. “I am glad we have this chance to speak,” he said weakly, forcing a smile. “I must admit, I was expecting another werewolf.”

“No, that I am not. If I could have revealed myself sooner, I would have.”

Swiftrunner stepped forward. “Do not listen to him, Lady! He will betray you! We must attack him now!”

Daylen sighed, bouncing on his heels as panic clawed at the edge of his consciousness. “Swiftrunner, have I or any of my companions ever acted in less than good faith in regards to you? No, we haven’t, because you haven’t given us the blasted chance to speak with you!”

“You will not speak like that in front of the Lady, outsider!” Swiftrunner bellowed.

Daylen was about ready to see what effect punching the werewolf in the groin would have when the Lady intervened. “Hush, Swiftrunner. Your urge for battle has only seen the death of the very ones you have been trying to save. Is that what you want?”

“No, my Lady,” Swiftrunner said softly. “Anything but that.”

“Then the time has come to speak with this outsider, to set our rage aside.” She looked to Daylen. “I apologize on Swiftrunner’s behalf. He struggles with his nature.”

Recognizing the need for diplomacy, Daylen fought to keep his breathing in check and nodded. “As do we all, Lady.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” she murmured. “But few could claim the same as these creatures: that their very nature is a curse forced upon them. No doubt you have questions, mortal. There are things that Zathrian has not told you.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Daylen echoed. “Enlighten me.”

“It was Zathrian who created the curse that these creatures suffer, the same curse that Zathrian’s own people now suffer.” Daylen’s jaw dropped. “Centuries ago, when the Dalish first came to this land, a tribe of humans lived close to this forest. They sought to drive the Dalish away.”

“Alamarri or Chasind, I’d guess,” Alistair said quietly.

“Zathrian was a young man, then. He had a son and a daughter he loved greatly, and while out hunting the human tribe captured them both.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t have them over for tea,” Daylen said. “I get the feeling I’m really not going to like what you say next.”

Swiftrunner growled. “The humans…tortured the boy, killed him. The girl they raped and left for dead. The Dalish found her, but she learned later she was…with child. She…killed herself.”

Daylen felt bile creeping up the back of his throat, and shook his head. “So Zathrian cursed them.”

Swiftrunner nodded. “Zathrian came to this ruin and summoned a terrible spirit, binding it to the body of a great wolf. So Witherfang came to be.”

“Blood magic,” Daylen spat. “I might have guessed.”

“Witherfang hunted the humans of the tribe,” Swiftrunner went on. “Many were killed, but others were cursed by his blood, becoming twisted and savage creatures.”

“Twisted and savage just as Witherfang himself is,” the Lady said. “They were driven into the forest. When the human tribe finally left for good, their cursed brethren remained, pitiful and mindless animals.”

Swiftrunner knelt next to the Lady, and Daylen caught himself staring at the spirit’s barely-covered chest momentarily. “Until I found you, my lady. You gave me peace.”

“I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature. I soothed his rage, and his humanity emerged. And he brought others to me.”

“Why did you ambush the Dalish?” Daylen asked. “Revenge?”

“In part,” the Lady said. “We seek to end the curse. The crimes committed against Zathrian’s children were grave, but they were committed centuries ago, by those who are long dead. Word was sent to Zathrian every time the landships passed this way, asking him to come, but he has always ignored us. We will no longer be denied.”

Swiftrunner snarled. “We spread the curse to his people, so he must end the curse to save them!”

“Stupid _bastard_ ,” Daylen said bitterly. “Inflicting this on people…”

“Please, mortal,” the Lady of the Forest continued. “You must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight…surely he will agree to end the curse!”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Daylen said skeptically. “He just wishes to cure his people, nothing else.”

“He will never break the curse!” Swiftrunner barked. “He will never allow it, my Lady! You know this!”

“We…cannot know that,” the Lady said uncertainly. “Sure his rage does not run so deep he would endanger his own clan!”

“Clearly you underestimate the idiocy of an angry man,” Daylen replied. “He has already endangered them by sending out multiple hunting parties looking for Witherfang, and he endangers them further by insisting that these werewolves are nothing but mindless beasts.”

“If Zathrian comes, I shall summon Witherfang. I possess that power. I also have the power to ensure Witherfang is never found,” The Lady said firmly. “Tell Zathrian this. If he does not come, if he does not break the curse, he will _never_ find Witherfang, and he will never cure his people.”

“I’ll bring him here, but before I do,” Daylen said. “You are Witherfang, are you not?”

The Lady remained impassive. “I am. What led you to that conclusion?”

“You’re a bound spirit,” Daylen replied. “I can tell that much. And yet you’re emotional about this. Angry, but desperate. Nobody gets that angry unless they’re talking about their own family.”[2] The Lady’s expression didn’t change, and Daylen nodded. “I’ll bring Zathrian here if I have to drag him by the ears.”

“Then we shall await your return.” She pointed off to the side, and Daylen spied a door being unbarred. “Outside of this chamber, the passage leading back to the surface has been opened for you. Return with Zathrian as soon as you can.”

Before heading out the exit, Daylen doubled back, poking around in another set of rooms that had adjoined the chamber where the werewolves had approached them to parley. In one room, a set of bookshelves held little of use, considering most of the books were stained or rotted through, and the rest were in Tevinter. Daylen pocketed a handful of scrolls regardless and moved on. In another, the group found a dead revenant.

“You think the werewolves did this?” Alistair asked.

“Between the claw marks, the bite marks, and the bloodied fur clumps sticking to the sword, I would say that’s a reasonable assumption,” Daylen said dryly. “This thing’s shield is cracked. I guess the one you looted is still better.” Alistair nodded. “Well, it was worth looking, even if we didn’t find anything.” Heading out the exit the Lady had indicated, they made their way up a long set of stairs. “If this leads where I think it’s going to lead, I am going to be…” They emerged into one of the first chambers they had passed through when they had entered the ruins, and Daylen’s palm met his forehead with a quiet smack. “Of course.”  He looked up to see Zathrian examining one of the corpses they had left in their wake.

“Ah. And here you are already,” Zathrian said.

“Keeper,” Daylen replied tightly. “What are you doing here?”

“You have carved a safe path through the forest,” he answered. “Safe enough for me to follow, anyhow.”

Morrigan chuckled. “He wishes to see if we did his work for him. Is that not why you are here now, sorcerer?”

Zathrian sneered, pointing at Morrigan. “Do not call me that, witch! I am keeper of this clan, and have done what I must. Did you acquire the heart?”

“Did you tell me what I needed to know?” Daylen shot back. “The answer to both questions is no.”

“You didn’t? May I ask, then, why you are leaving the ruin?”

“Because I had to use the privy,” Daylen snapped. “I don’t answer to you, first of all, but I think it’s high time you started answering my questions. You knew about this ruin. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There was no need. I knew you would find it, and I did not care to give you a history lesson about things that have no bearing on your purpose here.”

“Oh, it has _plenty_ of purpose here!” Daylen interrupted. “And there was _plenty_ of need! We risked our lives hunting through this blasted forest for this ruin, and if you’d been honest with us we could have come straight here!”

“You made it here, regardless,” Zathrian said dismissively. “But it seems the spirit convinced you to act on her behalf. Might I inquire what she wants?”

“What is it you think she wants?” Daylen snapped. “See? I can be obtuse and cryptic too!”

“To survive, I suspect. That is the common nature amongst all such creatures, the will to survive.” He leaned closer, as if imparting great knowledge. “You do understand that she actually is Witherfang?”

Daylen leaned forward as well. “Yes, I figured that out a while ago. I also know that you created her and you’re responsible for this mess.”

“The curse came first from her,” Zathrian said. “Those she afflicted with it mirrored her own nature, becoming savage beast as well as human.”

“The curse came first from _you_. Not that it matters much; the werewolves have regained their minds.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Zathrian sighed. “They attacked my clan and they were the same savages then that they have ever been. They deserve to be wiped out and not defended. Come, I will accompany-”

“Sten,” Daylen said, his eyes never leaving Zathrian’s. “If this sanctimonious arsehole so much as blinks wrong, feel free to end his life in whatever way you think is most efficient. It’s all he deserves, forcing this curse on innocents. Zathrian, how can you defend this? You’ve condemned innocent people to a horrific curse because of something their ancestors did!”

“They are as much beast as their ancestors were!”

Daylen crossed his arms, taking a half-step back. “You realize that’s what human nobles say about the Dalish, right? They deserve their fate because their ancestors started a war and lost? The elves deserve to be scattered to the winds because they are as uncivilized as they were hundreds of years ago, never mind that the humans helped cause it?” Zathrian remained silent, and Daylen glared daggers at him, his beard twitching angrily as he worked his jaw. “You hypocritical bastard! You can claim to be better than humans all you want, but the fact is you’re willing to inflict a nightmarish existence on a bunch of people who did _nothing_ to you!” Daylen shook his head. “That’s it. You’re going to end this curse. Now.”

“I will do no such thing! You have no idea of their transgressions!”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know what these people have done besides attack your clan because you have created this curse and you have ignored all the signs of being wrong. But I know what their  _ancestors_ , the long-dead people who were responsible for this did. Rape, murder, driving an innocent girl to suicide.” Daylen’s tone grew harsher as he continued. “And believe me; I’ve seen plenty of that. Don’t you  _dare_ tell me that what people did hundreds of years ago merits inflicting this sort of curse on their descendants.”

“They are still the same worthless creatures that their ancestors were! They deserve nothing less than the misery they possess!”

Daylen felt a surge of something besides the anger and disgust he had for Zathrian – pity. “Do you still have so much hatred after centuries?”

“You were not there. You did not see what…what they did to my son. To my daughter. And so many others.” He began pacing, his hands moving quickly as he spoke. “You are not Dalish. How can you know how we had to struggle to be safe? How could I have let their crimes go unanswered?”

“The crimes _have_ been answered, Zathrian,” Alistair broke in. “The criminals were punished centuries ago. They’re dead now.”

“I remember them as if it were yesterday,” Zathrian snapped. “Even if they are more than animals now, they desire nothing but revenge! They will never let my clan be.”

The mage shook his head. “All they want is to end this curse. The desire for revenge, if anywhere, rests solely with you. And your answer is to let them suffer forever?”

“Tell me, if you held your own daughter’s lifeless body in your arms would you not also have sworn an eternity of pain on those who did such to her?”

Daylen blinked. “Well, no. I wouldn’t.” Zathrian’s face twisted in confusion, and Daylen continued. “I would have killed them. All of them. And then left it there. I would _not_ have inflicted a curse upon their descendants – people who had never done _anything_ to me – to satisfy a misplaced thirst for vengeance!”

“Very well. You wish me to go and talk? I will do so. But what if it is only more revenge that they wish? Will you safeguard me from harm?”

“I will defend you if they attack, Keeper. But if you draw first…you’ll have six more people to deal with.”

“I fail to see the purpose behind this, but very well. It has been many centuries now. Let us see what the spirit has to say.”

—ROTG—

“So here you are, spirit,” Zathrian said quietly.

Swiftrunner leapt forward, and Leliana had an arrow nocked and half-drawn before the werewolf drew himself up to his full height, looming over the elf. “She is the Lady of the Forest! You will address her properly!”

To his credit, Zathrian was unfazed. “You’ve taken a name, spirit? And you’ve given names to your pets? These…beasts that follow you?”

“It was they who gave me a name, Zathrian. And the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them to find who they are.”

Zathrian’s face flushed. “Who they are has not changed from whom their ancestors were. Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shape only mirrors their monstrous hearts!”

“He will not help us, Lady!” Swiftrunner cried. “It is as I warned you! He is not here to talk!”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Swiftrunner, would you _please_ -”

“No, I am here to talk, though I see little point in it,” Zathrian spoke over him. “We all know where this will lead. Your nature compels it, as does mine.”

“It does not have to be that way,” the Lady replied. “There is room in your heart for compassion, Zathrian. Surely your retribution is spent.”

“My retribution is eternal, spirit, as is my pain,” Zathrian said firmly. “This is justice, no more.”

“But retribution against people who have done nothing to you or yours?” Leliana pleaded. “Can’t you see, Keeper? You are lashing out against innocents!”

“Are you certain your pain is the only reason you will not end this curse?” The Lady asked pointedly. “Have you told the mortal how it was created?”

“I’m guessing blood magic,” Daylen spoke up. “That’s how you summon and bind spirits, typically.”

The Lady nodded, her coal-black eyes narrowing. “Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors, but that is not true. So long as the curse exists, so do you.”

“No!” Zathrian said, his eyes wild. “That is not how it is!”

At this point, Daylen’s patience was wearing thin. “Just how far will you go for your revenge?”

“I did it for my people! I did it for my son, and my daughter! For them, for justice, I would do anything!”

“No!” Daylen barked. “Enough of that! It’s time the truth had its day! You did this for you! For vengeance! And it’s gone on long enough!”

The Lady was eerily serene despite the tension in the room. “The curse would not end with Zathrian’s death. His life, however, relies on its existence. And I believe his death plays a part in its ending.”

“Then we kill him!” Swiftrunner roared. “We tear him apart now!”

“For all your powers of speech, you are beasts still!” Zathrian shouted. “What would you gain from killing me? Only I know how the ritual ends, and I will never do it!”

“You see?” Swiftrunner howled. “We must kill them all!”

“See?” Zathrian said pointedly. “They turn on you as quickly. Do what you have come here to do, Grey Warden, or get out of my way.”

It was at that moment that Daylen’s temper got away from him. Grabbing Zathrian by the ear, he jerked the keeper’s head around. “You’ll end that curse if I have to force you myself!”

“We’re standing for what’s right, here,” Alistair said. “No matter what.”

Zathrian shoved Daylen back, walking for the exit. “Then you die with them! All of your will suffer as you deserve!”

For an elf centuries old, Zathrian was _fast_ on the draw. Daylen was knocked off his feet by Zathrian’s first spell, and as he rolled over he spotted most of the werewolves and Witherfang locked in place by glowing bonds.

Then Daylen was sent flying across the chamber, as a sylvan swiped at him. The screamed expletive that he let loose was cut short as Daylen bounced off a root. The mage thought of himself as generally graceful, but that illusion was dashed rather effectively as he landed on his head.

Alistair was having trouble of his own, ducking spells from Zathrian as the few werewolves still capable of movement engaged the sylvans Zathrian had bewitched. Leliana was dodging swipes from a shade, her bow discarded several paces away and her daggers flashing in the dim light as she counter-attacked. Morrigan and Sten had engaged two shades, the mage lobbing lightning at one as Sten grappled the other, his greatsword sinking deep into the shade’s gut.

Daylen sat up, his head spinning. Reaching up, he touched the back of his head and felt blood matting his hair. He moved to stand up, and cried out as his other arm was jostled, the limb hanging uselessly from a dislocated joint. Rolling onto his front, Daylen gritted his teeth as pain radiated from his shoulder and nearly vomited from the pain as he stood up. Spotting his staff several feet away, Daylen bent to pick it up, gasping in pain and straightening up a moment later. “All right, bad idea,” he rasped, coughing. Hooking his boot under the staff, he kicked upwards, managing to snag the staff out of the air. Leaning on the staff, he staggered forward, stumbling and accidentally slamming the arm against the wall.

This time, he _did_ vomit. Twice. Spitting out bits of his breakfast, Daylen limped forward, groaning with every step, and rejoined the fight just in time to see Cupcake gnawing on Zathrian’s calf, dragging the mage forward by the leg.

As the last sylvan fell and Leliana jammed her daggers through the shade’s face, the group advanced on Zathrian, the wardog planting both paws on his shoulders and growling menacingly.

“No, no more!” Zathrian pleaded. “I cannot…I cannot defeat you.”

“Finish it!” Swiftrunner bellowed. “Kill him now!”

“No, Swiftrunner,” the Lady said, resuming her humanoid form. “We will not kill him. If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how can we expect there to be room in his?”

Zathrian shook his head, still bleeding freely from several wounds. “I cannot do as you ask, spirit. I am too old to know mercy. All I see are the faces of my children, my people. I cannot do it.”

“This isn’t retribution you’re enacting, Zathrian,” Daylen said, spitting and trying to clear his throat. “This is you lashing out in pain and in fear. For the sake of your people, for the sake of justice, I beg of you…end this. Hasn’t it gone on long enough?”

“Perhaps I have…lived too long,” Zathrian allowed. “This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root…it has consumed my soul.” He looked to the Lady of the Forest. “What of you, spirit? You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?”

“You are my maker, Zathrian,” she replied calmly. “You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life. Yet of all things, I desire nothing more than an end. I beg you, maker, put an end to me. _We_ beg you…show mercy.”

Zathrian knelt, looking up at the Lady. “You shame me, spirit,” he said quietly. “I am an old man, alive long past his time. Yes, I think it is time. Let us…let us put an end to it all.”

The Lady stepped forward, and Daylen and the others watched as Zathrian took her hand in his, before slamming the butt of his staff onto the floor of the chamber. The effect was immediate. Zathrian collapsed, the Lady of the Forest vanished in a burst of light, and the werewolves began to glow, before their shapes blurred and reformed into human figures.

“I can’t believe it,” one of them said. “We’re free!” He embraced the man next to him, and Daylen sat down hard on a root patch nearby, trying not to jostle his arm too much.

“It’s over,” one of the freshly cured humans said. “She’s gone, and…we’re human. I can scarcely believe it.”

“What’s next for you?” Daylen asked. “What can you do now?”

“Leave the forest, I suppose,” he replied. “Find other humans, see what’s out there for us. It should be quite interesting, don’t you think?”

“I think you should all head north, with all speed,” Daylen replied. “If you want to see what’s out there and head south, all you’ll find is darkspawn.”

“Thank you,” he said warmly. “We’ll…we’ll never forget you.”

Daylen nodded, feeling blood trickling down his neck, and managed to stay awake until they left before his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed.

—ROTG—

Daylen cracked an eye open and looked around blearily, spotting Morrigan standing nearby with a small pot steaming over a fire. The Warden opened his mouth to speak, and managed a stifled croak. Another attempt yielded a stronger, more gravelly croak, and Morrigan looked over.

“Ah, your eyes open. I would bid thee to not make a habit of this, I do not enjoy watching over you as you sleep off whatever injuries you have been foolish enough to acquire.” She passed over a steaming mug, and Daylen tilted his head, trying to sip some of the scalding liquid. “That will dampen any pain you may feel. Leliana set your arm, and I treated your other wounds. You were not badly injured, this time.”

Daylen nodded, managing to get a solid mouthful of the herbal tea Morrigan had concocted. He gave one final rasp before speaking coherently. “Thank you, Morrigan. I appreciate your healing my injuries.”

“Do not make me do it again,” she replied archly. “I am no healer. You may wake up with something missing next time.”

“Duly noted,” Daylen murmured, setting the tea down and sitting up, realizing he had been stripped to his smallclothes. Flexing his arm, he winced as he heard a series of pops from the re-set joint. “We’re still in the ruins?”

“Alistair insisted we not move you more than necessary,” Morrigan said. “Can you stand?”

“I think so,” Daylen said, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Where are my robes?” Morrigan passed them over, and Daylen quickly dressed, hearing his stomach growling. “Thank you again. I have to speak with Alistair.”

“You are welcome,” she said hesitantly. “Again, I would ask that…” she looked down at her hands, where a fine gold chain now lay. “When did you hand me this? And what is this?”

“A token of my appreciation,” Daylen replied, sliding by her and trying not to feel too smug about the slight pink flush coloring her cheeks.

The warrior looked up from the cookpot as Daylen approached. “You’re awake!” Alistair said with a smile.

“Ever observant, Alistair,” Daylen replied. “We need to talk. What do you think our next move should be? Finding Arl Eamon?”

“Probably,” Alistair agreed. “You were right about contacting the Dalish first. If we had gone to see Eamon first, there may not have been any Dalish left by the time we got here. But I think we do need to speak to Eamon. We could use his support.”

Daylen nodded. “Even if he can’t give us some sort of tangible support, I would bet Loghain is planning to eliminate him as a threat.” Alistair nodded, and ladled out a bowl of stew for Daylen. “We’ll check in with the Dalish, make sure that they can give us the support we need, and then head to Redcliffe.”

“Works for me,” Alistair said, watching as Daylen began wolfing down the stew.

“So you said Arl Eamon raised you?” Daylen asked, ripping a trail biscuit in half and dunking it in the stew.

“Did I say that?” Alistair asked. “I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact.”

Daylen swallowed a mouthful of food. “Really? That must have been tough for them.”

“Well, they were flying dogs, you see. Surprisingly strict parents, too, and devout Andrastians, to boot.”

Daylen kept a straight face. “That is what they say about Anders.”

“That and that they make a great deal of cheese. Funny, but the dogs never mentioned cheese. As a matter of fact, if you said cheese around them, they’d start growling. Isn’t that odd?”

“And you were their little disappointment?” Daylen said.

Alistair nodded, before his face clouded. “Or did I dream all of that? Funny, the dreams you’ll have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn’t it?”

“I dream of becoming a Grey Warden,” Daylen replied. “Oh, _wait_.”

Alistair grunted in reply. “Point taken. Let’s see. How do I explain this? I’m a bastard. And before you make any smart comments,” he said, at Daylen’s grin, “I mean the fatherless kind. My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn’t my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn’t have to be. I respect the man and I don’t blame him any more for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough.”

“Why’d he send you off to the Chantry?” Daylen paused. “Wait, I think I get it. Young man, son of a serving girl, living in a noble’s household despite not being an acknowledged child of the noble…people thought he was your father.”

Alistair nodded. “Essentially. Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the King because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her. Anyhow, the new arlessa resented the rumors pegged me as his bastard. They weren’t true, but of course they existed. The arl didn’t care, but she did.”

“Sounds like a good man,” Daylen replied.

Alistair shrugged. “He is. She was less understanding of my existence. So, off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten. Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn’t a home to me by that point. She despised me. Felt threatened by me, I guess. I can’t say I blame her. She probably wondered if the rumors were true.”

“Oh, she sounds like a fun time,” Daylen sighed. “Orlesians are all about appearances.”

“I remember I had an amulet with Andraste’s holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother’s. I was so furious at being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered. Stupid, _stupid_ thing to do. The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything…and eventually, he just stopped coming.”

“You were young, and being torn away from the only home you’d ever known. Believe me, I can relate.” Daylen shifted uneasily. “Alistair, are you _sure_ he isn’t actually your father?”

“Quite sure,” Alistair replied a little too quickly.

“Sorry,” Daylen said. “I imagine you probably got that question a lot.”

There was a brief pause. “Yes, I suppose,” Alistair said uneasily. “At any rate, I don’t look anything like him. You’ll see for yourself. Not that it stopped the rumors any.” He shook his head and scratched at his hairline for a moment, before continuing. “All I know is that the arl is a good man, and well-loved by the people. He was also King Cailan’s uncle, so he has a personal motivation to see Loghain pay for what he did.”

“I imagine you’re not really a fan of the Chantry, then,” Daylen asked, trying to get the conversation on a different tack as he ladled out another bowl of stew.

“Not particularly,” Alistair said. “I am a touch biased, since they were the lucky ones who I was sent to.”

“Then why have you remained a Templar?”

Alistair grinned. “Have you seen the uniform? It’s not only stylish, but well-made. I’m a sucker for good tailoring!”

Daylen nearly choked on a mouthful of stew, coughing out a laugh. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he grinned at Alistair. “You waited until I was eating for that.” Alistair grinned shamelessly, and Daylen cleared his throat. “If tailoring’s your bag, then you should have become a mage.”

“Oh, you aren’t kidding. I think the Templar uniforms are as colorful as they are just so the Templars don’t feel dull in comparison. Last thing you want when you’re about to take down some maleficar out in the woods is to have him point at laugh at your taste in clothes. Am I right?”

“Seems like that might happen anyway,” Daylen mused. “I mean, the purple kilts are one thing, but from what I understand most maleficars are nutty enough anyway that they’d point and laugh maniacally no matter what you were wearing.”

“Oh, ow, ow, stab wounds to the pride are the worst. You don’t really want to know about my being a Templar, do you? It’s really quite boring.”

“You don’t have to tell me, then,” Daylen shrugged. “I was just curious.” He touched the back of his head again, feeling the blood dried in his hair and grimacing. “Not that I’m itching to just leg it, but what would happen if we just left?”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Just left? You mean just left Ferelden? I…don’t know. If there’s an archdemon, however, we’re supposed to be the only ones who can defeat it. And that means the Blight would grow unchecked. Eventually other Grey Wardens in Orlais and other lands would hear about it and they would come to fight it, but they wouldn’t come in time to save Ferelden. There’s no way. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I wasn’t suggesting jumping ship, Alistair,” Daylen replied. “I like to know what my alternative is, even if it’s not one I’m willing to accept. I suppose we’ll need to start rebuilding the order? Given that we survive, I guess.”

“I mean, eventually, we would have to use the Joining to make more Grey Wardens, right? But I don’t know how to do the Joining, or what’s involved. I know that it involves lyrium and some other magic, and that it’s really difficult to prepare. But that’s it. Unless we can find out more about the Joining, I guess we’d better get used to the idea that there might only be two of us for now. Until more come from elsewhere. I imagine that eventually the Grey Wardens outside of Ferelden will wonder what’s happened, why there’s no contact from Duncan or someone. They’ll send someone eventually, although who knows what Loghain’s people in Denerim will tell them. Maybe they won’t send anyone. We could try contacting them, but that would mean leaving Ferelden, and even if we did, they couldn’t come back with us, not in time to stop the Blight.”

“So it’s on us, then,” Daylen said, setting his bowl down as the realization of what exactly was resting on their shoulders soured his appetite. “Is there a headquarters somewhere? Besides Weisshaupt Fortress out in the Anderfels, I mean. Something where we could find documents, records, anything that might help.”

“Here in Ferelden there’s our compound in Denerim, but that’s it. Loghain will have control over that and be watching it, no doubt.”

“So no. Any idea where we could find more Wardens?”

“Orlais, the Free Marches, but both of those are weeks away and I wouldn’t know where to start looking,” Alistair said. “Any other questions?”

“A request, actually,” Daylen said. “Next time we have some free time, I need you to teach me how to fight. I’m getting tired of being smacked around.” Alistair nodded, and Daylen stood. “Right then. We should get back to the Dalish camp.”

“Uh, not a good idea,” Alistair replied. “You were asleep for some time. Leliana and Cupcake scouted a bit outside, and it’s dark out. I would recommend we wait for first light. Meantime…”

—ROTG—

“Ow,” Daylen wheezed, flat on his back. “Alistair, you realize if I die I can’t help you end the Blight, right?”

“You’re not going to die,” Alistair said, offering a hand. “Probably.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Daylen replied, letting the warrior help him to his feet. “And if you hit me in the ribs with that stick again, I’m going to shove it someplace unpleasant.”

“Fix your guard and I’ll stop hitting you in the ribs!” Alistair swung again, and Daylen snarled, grabbing the stick and freezing it with a thought. Yanking the stick away, the frozen hunk of wood shattered, fragments hissing as they flew into the fire. “Hey, you said you weren’t going to use magic!”

“Alistair, if I’m going to be in a fight with a sword, I’m going to use magic.” Daylen sighed, tossing his own stick into the fire. “I’m just trying to make sure that if I run out of mana at a bad time I can do something besides run or bean someone with my staff.”

“I can understand why,” Alistair replied. “But let’s face it. You’re a bit…soft to really heft a sword around.”

“Alistair,” Daylen said softly. “Are you calling me fat?”

“…No?” Alistair said weakly. “I’m just saying you lack the muscle to fight with a blade. I wouldn’t call you fat.”

“Wise decision,” Daylen mumbled. “But you’re right. The Circle isn’t big on exercise. They don’t like it if we’re fit enough to outrun the Templars.”

“And you’ve got all the dexterity of a concussed ox, so I don’t think handing you a dagger or a bow is going to end any better,” Alistair mused.

“Not a whole lot of arrows flying around Kinloch Hold,” Daylen replied. “Guess I’ll stick to magic and hitting people with sticks for now.” Alistair nodded, heading back for the camp. Daylen prodded at his ribs, wincing for a moment before healing the developing bruise with a quick healing spell.

“Are you two quite done with your little playfighting?” Morrigan asked as he walked by.

“For now,” Daylen replied. “Something on your mind?”

“I find it disturbing you, a mage, would be so friendly with one trained to hunt mages.”

Daylen took a seat next to her. “His training has nothing to do with my friendship with Alistair. I believe the power mages can wield is dangerous, yes, but I also believe that it's quite easy to learn how to use it safely. And learning to control one's magic has no link to whether one was in the Circle or not, or the presence of a Templar. I believe that there's quite a bit of knowledge outside the Circle that's worth knowing. Your shapeshifting abilities, for example."

"I see. Knowledge you would wish me to share with you."

"Beautiful _and_ perceptive."

Morrigan caught herself before she could preen under the compliment. "Well, I refuse."

Daylen fought the urge to smile. "And why would that be?"

"Because I doubt you have the will to learn these magics."

"And I'm beginning to doubt you have the skill to teach me," Daylen replied.

She sneered in response. "I could certainly teach someone as weak-willed as a Circle mage if I so wished. But tower mages deliberately keep themselves ignorant of things outside their worldview. I see no reason to allow you to benefit from knowledge you deliberately shun."

Daylen shrugged. "All right then. If you choose to generalize me, that's your decision, wrong though it may be."

"Why should I believe you any different from any other Circle mage?"

"Besides my asking you to teach me proving I don’t shun such knowledge? The night I was recruited into the Wardens, I helped a blood mage escape the tower. I falsified records, stole or damaged Circle property, and destroyed a hefty chunk of the basement of the tower before we destroyed his phylactery. I'm not much for most authority figures." Daylen stepped closer, his mouth twisting into a smile. "And if you doubt my will, Morrigan, you need only try to teach me this magic to prove my willpower insufficient."

Morrigan was wondering when her mouth had gone dry. "I…will think about it."

"You do that. Good night, Morrigan."

"Good night, Warden."

—ROTG—

“It is done,” Lanaya said as they approached her the next morning. “The essence of the wolf’s heart has banished all traces of cursed blood from the hunters. It is too bad that Zathrian had to die. I…I felt it, when he departed. I think he was ready to go.”

Daylen, personally, was less than enthusiastic about an elf waxing nostalgic about Zathrian. Especially after the beating he had taken the previous night and a poor night’s sleep, complete with darkspawn nightmares. “And did you know about his connection to the curse?”

“I suspected, but…Zathrian did not like to talk about that. Nonetheless, the curse is over, and no one else will be subjected to it.”

“And had he been honest with you, or had he been honest with me, or had _you_ been honest with me, quite a few of your clan would still be among the living,” Daylen snapped. “Don’t justify his twisted desire for revenge.”

Lanaya’s face darkened, but she swallowed whatever retort she had lined up. “It will be difficult to fill Zathrian’s shoes. He was our keeper for many centuries and he will be sorely missed.” Daylen opened his mouth to snap back at her again, only for Alistair to jab him in the side. “I am Keeper now,” Lanaya went on. “Let me say it officially, then: I hereby swear to uphold the terms of the ancient contract our people formed with the Grey Wardens. Call, and we shall come, with great speed and purpose, and we shall strike at your foes. This, I swear.”

“How long will your people need to ready yourselves for war?” Daylen asked.

“It will be some time,” Lanaya replied. “The curse leaves the hunters slowly, and they must regain their strength before they are ready to fight. It has been a long time since the Dalish marched to war, but I trust that in the end, we shall make a difference for you.”

“I strongly suggest you take your clan north, if possible. When the time comes, we will need your skirmishers and your archers, but until then, your people’s safety is paramount…Keeper Lanaya.”

—ROTG—

_Revenant  
An entire unit of men, all slain by one creature. I didn't believe it at first, your Perfection, but it appears that this is so. We have a survivor, and while at first I thought his rantings pure exaggeration... it appears to be no simple skeleton. The descriptions of the creature's abilities were eerily similar to those our brothers at Marnas Pell encountered almost a century ago: men pulled through the air to skewer themselves on the creature's blade, and attacks so quick that it was able to assault multiple opponents at once. No, your Perfection, what we have here is indeed a revenant and nothing less._

_—From a letter to Divine Amara III, 5:71 Exalted._

_A revenant is a corpse possessed by a demon of pride or of desire... making it amongst the most powerful possessed opponents that one can face. Many possess spells, but most are armed and armored and prefer the use of their martial talents. They are weak against physical attacks but regenerate quickly, and commonly use telekinesis to pull opponents into melee range should they try to flee. Revenants also have the ability to strike multiple opponents surrounding them. Stay at range if possible and strike quickly—that is the only way to take such a creature down._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Grab the shiny thing and run, Daylen! That's archaeology! [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Supernatural. [ return to text ]


	7. Off the Rails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go a bit off the rails.

_Geography of Ferelden  
The kingdom of Ferelden is the southernmost civilized nation in Thedas--although some scholars dispute that claim to civilization. It is perhaps the most physically isolated of all the kingdoms of Thedas: To the east is the Amaranthine Ocean, to the north the Waking Sea, and to the south the Korcari Wilds, which in the summer months are a vast peat bog, and in the winter become a treacherous labyrinth of iced-over waterways. The Frostback Mountains guard the western border, and only a narrow plain between the mountains and the sea allows travel between Ferelden and Orlais._

_Most of the land in the central portion of the kingdom, called the Bannorn, is open plains. These are crossed by the remnants of an ancient Tevinter highway that once connected Val Royeaux with Ostagar, on the edge of the Korcari Wilds. The western part of Ferelden is dominated by Lake Calenhad, a huge caldera filled by the runoff of glaciers from nearby mountains. Lake Calenhad is home to the famed fortress of Redcliffe, as well as the Circle Tower, which houses Ferelden's Circle of Magi._

_In the east is the vast Brecelian Forest, which the superstitious locals profess to be haunted, and from which rises the Dragon's Peak, a solitary mountain that guards the capital city of Denerim._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

—ROTG—

It was one of those days that everyone has once in a while, and seemed to make up just about every second day since Daylen had left the Circle. They had spent the night with the Dalish, stocking up and letting Bodahn trade a bit with the clan’s craftsman before setting out the next morning, heading for Redcliffe. Lanaya had passed some magical texts on to Daylen, explaining he might need them more. In return, he had informed her of the fresh dragon corpse in the ruins, the bones and scales of which could provide excellent materials for equipping the clan's contribution to the Warden army.

And for the last hour, Daylen had heard nothing but bickering amongst his companions. Leliana and Morrigan. Alistair and Sten. Sten and Leliana. Alistair and _Cupcake_. And, most recently, Morrigan and Sten.

“Why are you here?” Sten asked abruptly.

Morrigan looked over. “Excuse me?

Sten’s face was as impassive as always, and Daylen idly wondered if he could get the Qunari to teach him how to keep his face so blank. It would have been an unbelievable advantage at the Circle’s Diamondback games. “Obviously you are no priestess. But shouldn't you be... running a shop, or a farm somewhere, rather than fighting?”

Morrigan smiled sweetly. That unsettled Daylen more than almost anything else he had seen since his recruitment. “You think to tell me my place, Qunari? You are very brave.”

“It is not done,” Sten said stubbornly.

“But it is done. Do not be such a blind fool.”

Sten crossed his arms over his chest. “I speak the truth. It is not _I_ who am blind.”

Morrigan gestured at the landscape around them. “Look around you, then. You see women throughout this land, fighters and mages both.”

“That has yet to be proven.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Which? That they fight? Or that they are female?”

“Either.”

“So I am not truly a woman to you? Hmm. 'Tis good to know.”

“Do you know of the kasaanda? The... sundew, in the common tongue?”

Morrigan shook her head. “I do not believe so.”

“No? You are so alike, I thought you kindred.”

The mage rolled her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean? What is the sundew?”

“A flower.”

“Oh? I am a flower, am I? How unexpected.”

Sten continued. “That entraps and devours insects.”

Morrigan chuckled. “Ah, now that I expected.”

“Dear Maker, I need a drink,” Daylen muttered, glancing upwards. “If I have to deal with these wankers for the entire Blight, I’m going to go gray before I turn twenty-two.”

“I think there’s some whiskey in the back of the wagon,” Bodahn said quietly.

“You’re a life-saver, Bodahn,” Daylen mumbled.

“Not a problem,” the dwarf chuckled. “You and your friends are formidable folk, indeed. Good to have along on the road.”

“Beats hired swords, eh?” Daylen asked. “So what’s your story, exactly?”

The merchant sighed. “Well, if you’re really interested, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. I am originally from Orzammar, the famed dwarven city that lies beneath the stately Frostback Mountains. I was a merchant there too…Merchant Caste. These things are in the blood, you know. You can’t just leave them behind. I ran a fairly successful business. Rare artifacts, you know; old things, grand things…the nobles loved them. Reminded them of the lost glory days, I suppose.”

“You had things from that far back?” Daylen asked. “The dwarven empire collapsed hundreds of years ago. Blasted darkspawn took it all.”

Bodahn shrugged. “True. The old thaigs fell one by one, until all that was left was Orzammar. But some things made it out. But we were talking about how I ended up here, weren’t we?” Daylen nodded. “One day a noblewoman came to my store. She looked around for a bit and then started shrieking in dismay. Apparently, she believed a pair of bracers I had for sale once belonged to her brother. He’d been lost in a cave-in, you see, while on an expedition to clear out the darkspawn from one of the tunnels running close to the city. ‘They were made for him! They’re unique!’ she shrieked. ‘He stole them from my poor brother’s corpse!’ She had me arrested on the spot, of course. Nobles, they’re touchy like that.”

“Well, I can understand why she was upset,” Daylen admitted. “I imagine you didn’t actually steal them.”

“I didn’t,” Bodahn said sharply, before sighing. “You see, I had been paying these casteless thugs to venture out into the Deep Roads for me. The lost thaigs…they’re full of things that people left behind. Sometimes you can find a treasure. Something worth a little gold.”

“Better than letting the darkspawn shite all over it,” Daylen replied. “I wouldn’t call that stealing as much as reclamation.”

“To the nobles, it’s stealing. They believe everything in the thaigs belongs to the house that once dwelled there, even if it’s in ruins and they haven’t seen it in generations. The noblewoman, she wasn’t too happy with the…‘theft,’ of her brother’s bracers. I don’t know what they planned for me and I didn’t want to find out. Bribed the guard that was watching me and took off for the surface first opportunity I got. Never looked back.”

“Must have been a daring escape,” Daylen said, feeling that Bodahn had clearly glossed over some important points of his departure. “You’re quite lucky to have done so well.”

“I thank the Stone every single day,” Bodahn said quietly.

“I notice you didn’t mention Sandal at all in your tale,” Daylen said, glancing at the younger dwarf curled up in the back of the wagon. The dwarf looked over and gave him a toothy grin, and Daylen waved in response.

“Ah, yes,” Bodahn replied. “I’m married to a fine woman back in Denerim, its true. She’d give me a son if she could, but…that’s not likely to ever be. Sandal, here…I found him in the Deep Roads years ago. Abandoned, I think, and he was never quite right in the head. I took him in, and brought him with me when I came to the surface. He may not be my blood, true, but I think of him as one.”

Daylen shook his head. “What’s that phrase? The blood of the battlefield is thicker than the water of the womb?”

Bodahn’s eyebrows furrowed. “That’s from an Anders proverb. You are an odd one, aren’t you Warden.”

“Point stands. Blood isn’t that important. Family is. The two aren’t the same.”

“That’s how I’ve always felt. As long as he’s happy, so am I. It’s not as if I don’t benefit, mind you. Turns out the boy’s a natural working with enchantments. He can work an enchantment into just about anything, given some time. Could probably open his own shop, if he knew how.”

“That’s a good idea, if we make it through this Blight,” Daylen said, his brow furrowing as he saw a wagon coming from the other direction. “These people look a little worse for wear. Wonder what happened.” He raised his voice, calling to the other travelers. “Hello there! Are you all right?”

“Do I bloody well look all right?” The man driving the wagon asked, gingerly touching a rapidly darkening patch around his right eye. “Some of Teyrn Loghain’s men took objection to my asking why they were stopping everyone on the highway. If I were you, I’d turn around.”

“Bollocks,” Daylen muttered. “All right. Thanks for the warning, friend.” He rooted around in his satchel for a moment, before hopping off the wagon. “Here,” he said, handing the man a packet of herbs. “Boil this in some water, then mash it up and rub it on there. It’ll help.”

The man looked at the herbs suspiciously for a moment, before shrugging and pocketing them. “Appreciate it.”

“Favor for a favor, mate,” Daylen replied. “Good news is the road behind us is clear. Hope your day goes better.” As the man nodded and flicked the reins, his oxen dragging the wagon on down the highway, Daylen turned to his companions, wincing. “Good thing that he warned us!”

“Should we turn around?” Alistair asked.

“I don’t know,” Daylen admitted. “It would mean losing all the time we’ve spent today, and there’s no guarantee the road in the other direction would be any less dangerous.” He looked at the wagon for several moments, before looking up at Bodahn. “Do you think the wagon could handle the side roads?”

“I think it could make it,” the dwarf said hesitantly. “Do you think it’s necessary?”

“It’s that or most likely have to fight a whole bunch of Loghain’s men,” Daylen replied. “I’d like to avoid that.”

“Side roads it is, then.”

—ROTG—

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Daylen groaned as the wagon went over another bump.

“Aim over the side of the wagon this time,” Leliana sighed, scrubbing at the stain on her leathers.

“Said I was sorry,” the mage grumbled. “Hopefully the road will smooth out after we get over this ridge. We’ll probably make camp there, if we can find a safe place. It’ll be getting dark soon anyway.” He grimaced as his stomach roiled, before snapping upright. “Alistair.”

“I feel it,” the other Warden said. “Bodahn, stop the wagon. There’s darkspawn nearby.”

“Could they be this far north already?” Daylen asked as the dwarf pulled back on the reins. “How far could the horde have moved?”

Alistair shook his head. “If it were the main horde, we’d be sensing far more,” he said. “Probably just a small band.” He pointed towards an elevated section of the ridge. “That way.”

It took less than an hour to find the darkspawn, even amongst the trees and rough terrain of the ridge. It was Leliana who spotted them first, whistling a bird call to the others.

“This is a small band?” Daylen hissed as he saw them. “That’s what, a dozen genlocks, almost as many hurlocks, and a bloody ogre?”

“Look, I can’t sense how many there are, just that there’s a bunch of the bastards, all right?” Alistair snapped back.

Daylen shrugged. “Sorry. Let’s keep this simple, then. There’s a bunch of darkspawn over there. Let’s go kill them.”

“I like your thinking,” Alistair said, drawing his sword. “Ideas?”

The mage thought a moment. “Sten, Cupcake, Alistair, wait for me to strike,” Daylen said quietly. “Leliana, hang back with Morrigan and hit anything that looks like it’s about to blindside them. Clear?” A chorus of agreements and one happy _whuff_ answered him, and Daylen nodded. “Mind the big bastard. Nobody get hurt.”

Daylen’s opener was a fireball that landed squarely on the ogre’s chest, knocking it flat on its back and incinerating a genlock that was unfortunate enough to be nearby. Leliana’s arrows and Morrigan’s lightning each killed another genlock before the warriors broke from cover, charging into the fray as Daylen froze a lead genlock in place. Sten shattered the frozen darkspawn with a crushing strike, before engaging a hurlock. Cupcake ducked a genlock’s axe swing, before his powerful jaws closed around the darkspawn’s wrist. The dog’s head rolled, and there was a sickening snap at the genlock’s wrist broke as it was dragged to the ground. Cupcake finished the genlock with an efficient bite to the throat, before making for a hurlock’s hamstrings as Daylen froze the ogre in place.

Alistair, to his credit, was engaging two hurlocks simultaneously, parrying one and bearing strikes from the other on his shield. One of them was shoved aside by a hurlock alpha carrying a maul, and Alistair was forced back, Leliana’s arrow deflecting off the alpha’s heavy plate as the warrior ducked an overhand blow from the darkspawn’s heavy maul.

Then Alistair’s guard went just a hair too wide, and the hurlock alpha’s maul slammed into Alistair’s ribs. Alistair fell, and Leliana's arrow sprouted between the offending darkspawn's eyes, knocking it flat on its back. Alistair coughed blood and collapsed, even as Cupcake charged the darkspawn from its flank, only to be batted aside with a pained yelp.

Daylen snapped out a hand, and a burst of healing magic washed over his friend, flesh and bone knitting and realigning. “Get Alistair and get behind me,” Daylen ordered, striding forward and slamming the base of his staff into the soft dirt, downing a lyrium potion as Sten dragged the other warrior back. “Oi! Shitheads! Now you're going to see what happens when you make a mage like me angry.” The wisp orbiting around his head increased in size as he pumped more magic into it, and a translucent shield sprang up around him even as his skin visibly hardened.

The lead darkspawn roared a challenge before charging, and Daylen bellowed a response, a blast of elemental frost spraying from his hands. He followed up by lobbing a fireball directly into the lead concentration of darkspawn one-handed, before a blast of lightning issued from his other hand, darkspawn flesh burning and searing under the assault. Ripping a grenade from his satchel, Daylen flung it into the fray, a blast of frost rooting several more hurlocks to where they stood. A lump of conjured stone shattered one, and Daylen flung several more spells, bolts of lightning, frost, and arcane energy issuing from his hands with blistering speed. Yanking a vial from his satchel, Daylen downed the lyrium potion, grunting at the burn that flowed through his body and thrusting his staff forward, striding closer to the darkspawn and weaving magic as quickly as he could. The air began to crackle and snap as his spell built, and Daylen hands swirled in the air, even as the hurlocks broke free of their icy restraints and charged. Daylen's hands came down, and a highly localized blizzard exploded into existence over the darkspawn, the wind whipping Daylen's robes back and forth as ice, snow, and freezing cold battered the darkspawn.

Daylen staggered from the exertion, the sudden massive draw on his mana nearly knocking him out of the fight. The ground near the cliff shook under the sudden magical discharge, and Daylen continued to lob spells into it, downing another lyrium potion and coughing out a pained breath. The ogre fell, the genlocks collapsed, and hurlocks died as the storm took its toll. The storm finally dissipated, showing the cliff clear of living darkspawn, and Daylen staggered forward, heavily winded from the effort.

Alistair limped forward, putting a hand on Daylen's shoulder. The mage whipped around, fire in his eyes and a ball of lightning crackling in his hand, and his face softened as he saw his friend. “Easy, Daylen. You did it.”

Daylen nodded, forcing a grin. “Damn, I’m good.” He slumped against Alistair, and the Warden hoisted his mage friend over his shoulder, turning to walk back to the camp.

Then the cliff collapsed out from under them.

—ROTG—

“You know,” Alistair grunted. “This is not a situation I had expected today.”

He was hanging off the side of the cliff, one arm hooked around a half-collapsed tree, the other holding a tight grip on Daylen's unconscious body. He looked around as more rocks trickled down the unstable cliff. “Anyone got any bright ideas?” Silence answered him, and Alistair shook his head. “Just me, then? Great!” Shaking his friend, he sighed as Daylen's head banged against the side of the mountain, the mage groaning in protest.

“Uh…what?” Daylen shook his head, before opening his eyes. “Oh, fuck!” He thrashed, clutching at Alistair for dear life.

“We have a bit of a situation,” Alistair said, shaking his head as more rocks banged off his helmet.

“Did I miss something?” Daylen asked.[1]

“Your little display back there must have knocked something loose,” Alistair replied. “The cliff collapsed out from under us.”

Daylen spotted a handhold, taking some of the weight off of Alistair. “Well, shit.” He noticed a tremor in his hands that was more than just anxiety. “Just how much lyrium did I take?”

“I saw three of those potions you had,” Alistair said. “So…lots.”

Daylen scrubbed his face against the shoulder of his robe. “Great. Any bright ideas?”

“Was hoping you’d have a plan,” Alistair admitted.

“I got an idea, but I don’t think you’ll like it,” Daylen said.

“Well, we may not have much time before this cliff comes down on us, so you’d better go with it,” Alistair said.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Daylen said. “I just hope I get this spell right. It’s advanced, and I’ve only used it once.” Daylen focused, weaving some magic.

Alistair managed to get out “What are you-” before Daylen finished casting a force field around his friend and kicked him off the side of the mountain. Daylen weaved, dizzy at the exertion, before casting the same spell on himself, letting himself fall as the spell took effect.

The two landed in a snowdrift, the same spell that prevented them from moving preventing them from being harmed by the long fall. A few moments after Daylen had begun to seriously wonder whether he had miscalculated the amount of magic to put into the spell, Alistair regained the use of his limbs, staggering to his feet and spitting out a mouthful of snow. “Are you  _insane_?”

“Maybe,” Daylen replied, standing as his own spell wore off. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, but you threw me off a cliff!”

“I saved your life!”

“ _You threw me off a cliff_!”

“ _I saved your_  – alright yes, I threw you off a cliff, but did you have a better idea?”

“So now what?” Alistair asked. “You’ve lost your staff, our supplies are gone, and we have no idea where we are or if they others even know we're alive.”

“So?” Daylen shot back. “We're alive. We're still breathing. The rest? Well, we're Grey Wardens. We'll do what we have to.”

“You don't ever give up, do you,” Alistair said quietly.

“Never, brother,” Daylen said. “Now let’s get moving.”

“Kicking me off a cliff,” Alistair sighed, shaking his head as they set off. “That was…well, it worked. I’ll give you that.”

“Wasn’t my most tactful move, sure, but it got us off the mountain,” Daylen agreed. ”Now we just have to find the others before Sten, Leliana, and Morrigan kill each other.” He looked up. “Um…Alistair, not to tempt fate, but do those clouds look off to you?”

Alistair looked up, before glaring at his friend. “That’s a blizzard coming. You have the worst luck _I have_ _ever seen_.”

It only took an hour for the temperature to fall below freezing as the blizzard set in, sheets of flying and falling snow making it impossible to see more than a dozen paces.

“Daylen,” Alistair said, his teeth chattering. “We have to find shelter.”

“Where?” Daylen asked. “I can’t see a damn thing.” 

“Well we can’t stay out here!” Alistair snapped, shoving his hands under his armpits. “Maker, I can’t feel my feet.”

“I know, I’m agreeing with you,” Daylen said, his word slurring. “But I don’t see a place we can shelter from this snow!”

“Head for the cliff face, we’ll find an overhang or something. We’ll freeze to death out here.”

“I think I’m there already,” Daylen wheezed, sagging.

Alistair groaned, before hoisting his friend’s arm over his shoulders. “All I need is to be carrying your unconscious arse around in a blizzard,” he groused, helping the dazed mage walk. “Stay awake! There won’t be anything to start a fire with, we’ll need your magic to make it through the night.” The warrior scanned the black mass ahead of them. “I can’t see anyplace we could take shelter. It’s too dark!”

Daylen gritted his teeth, his eyes half closed. Holding out his free hand, he let several wisps fly, hovering around the pair. Most of the shadows vanished, but one did not.

“There,” Alistair hissed, hauling his friend forward. Letting Daylen lean against the wall, Alistair set his weapons down. “Can you create fire of some sort?”

“I’ll try,” Daylen said, magic sparking between his hands. “Come on, come on,” he mumbled. His hands drooped, and Alistair was at his side in seconds, shaking his friend.

“Daylen, stay awake. You can do this.” He tugged his ice-encrusted gauntlets off, blowing warm air on his hands before smacking Daylen in the face. “Oi! Wake up!”

Daylen snapped upright, eyes alight. “What?”

“Fire! We’re going to freeze!” Daylen shook his head, before pulling a packet of vellum from his satchel. Shaking some snow from it, he set it on the floor of the cave, before setting it alight. The two huddled around the tiny fire, warming their hands.

“All right,” Alistair said. “Get out of your robes.”

“Hold on, now,” Daylen said. “Just because it’s cold out-”

“Shut up and get undressed, your robes are covered in ice and snow,” Alistair said, holding his head over the small fire. “My helmet is frozen to the rest of my armor, and I’ve got a pound of snow in my smalls. Can you make more fire?”

Daylen focused, and the fire grew. “As long as I feed it some mana it’ll keep going, no need for wood.” He tugged at the collar of his robes. “My hair is frozen.”

“Serves you right for having hair that long,” Alistair scoffed, managing to break his helmet free. Shaking snow out of it, he began fumbling with the buckles to his armor. “Blasted things,” he cursed, his numb fingers tripping over the slick leather.

“Here,” Daylen said, feeding more mana into the fire. “Warm up a bit, then try.” He rubbed the ties on his robes, thawing the cloth out, before stripping the fabric off. Kicking off his boots, he shook ice from his socks and stood in the cave in his smallclothes, shivering and glaring at Alistair. “I blame you for this.”

“Why me?” Alistair asked, warming his hands before making another attempt on his armor. “How is this situation my fault?”  
“Because you’re the only other person here,” Daylen grumbled. “I know it’s not your fault but I don’t have anyone else to blame right now.”

Alistair dropped the ice-cold armor on the floor of the cave, pulling his frozen shirt over his head. “Oh, Maker, I feel better now.”

“Good,” Daylen said, teeth chattering from the cold. “Do you think they know we’re alive?”

“No idea,” Alistair whispered. “Leliana might look. The others? I don’t know.”

“We’ll have to find them if they can’t find us,” Daylen declared.

“Easier said than done, they won’t be able to track us in this mess.”

“Think positive!”

“I’m positive we’re in a real mess here!”

Daylen snorted. “All right, you got me with that one. What can we do besides wait this out?”

—ROTG—

Thankfully, the blizzard only lasted a few hours, just long enough to coat much of the surrounding countryside with a thick layer of snow. The two Wardens, having thawed and dried their clothes out, dressed and set out to rejoin their companions, aiming for a nearby ridge to get a good idea of where Leliana, Sten, and Morrigan might be.

And within another hour, something else had gone wrong.

“Daylen, I think we’re being followed,” Alistair said.

“Dalish?”

“No, they aren’t even attempting to hide,” Alistair declared, pointing. “Look, they’re following our trail.” Daylen peered in the direction he was pointing, shielding his eyes against the sun. “It’s one thing to follow someone’s footsteps in the snow, it’s an easier walk that way, but why would they be there at all? We aren’t on any road.”

“Bounty hunters, you think?” Daylen asked.

“Bad news, whoever they are,” Alistair replied.

Daylen nodded. “Agreed. Got any ideas for losing them?”

Alistair looked around, scanning the countryside. “Sure. Let’s head farther up the ridge. The ground is rougher, we’ll leave less tracks.”

By the time midday arrived, Alistair and Daylen had reached the top of the ridge, having doubled back repeatedly and crossed over patches of exposed rock multiple times. “Hold up,” Alistair said, looking over his shoulder. “Let’s take a look.”

Daylen looked over the ridge, spotting their pursuers against the snow. “Oh, how are they still following us? We were running over rock! It's physically impossible to track someone over rock!”

“I don't know,” Alistair panted. “Who _are_ these guys?”

“What do you say we don't find out,” Daylen said, letting a small flare of magic loose to rejuvenate the pair. “Whatever they're selling, I don't want it.”[2]

A half hour later, the two were huddled behind a rock, watching the trackers following them. “Alistair, I just had a horrible idea.”

“I love your horrible ideas,” Alistair replied, wiping his mouth and handing a water skin back to Daylen. “Let's hear it.”

Daylen looked down at the group. “What if they've got my phylactery?”

Alistair blanched. “That would mean that they're Templars.”

“Not necessarily,” Daylen said. “They may just have connections with the Chantry or access to the repository in Denerim. If they've got my phylactery, there's no place in the world I can go where they can't find me.”

“So what do we do?” Alistair asked.

Daylen paced, his hands trembling slightly. “All right, let’s think about this. We have half a dozen men chasing us. Assuming they have my phylactery, I can’t hide from them, so the two of us getting the drop on them is out, and I don’t know if you can even spring a one-man ambush.” He ran a hand through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “If we somehow manage to find the others, we’ll even the odds somewhat, but that assumes we can find our companions before whoever these people are manage to catch up to us.” Daylen looked over at Alistair. “So that leaves what, letting them catch us? Trying to take on three times our number?”

“Maybe we can find Leliana and the others,” Alistair said, peering down the other side of the ridge. “Everything looks different covered in snow. I can’t even tell where we’ve been!”

“All right, hang on,” Daylen sighed, taking a steadying breath and pointing off to the east. “That looks to be the highway.”

Alistair nodded. “Right. We were coming north from the Brecelian Forest, and we got diverted _there_ ,” he indicated a bend in the road, “Because we heard about a pack of Loghain’s soldiers ahead from people coming the other way. And it was only then that we started cutting cross-country and ran into all this trouble.”

“So they’ve got to be in _that_ direction, then,” Daylen said, pointing along the path they had taken.

Alistair groaned. “Yes.”

Daylen sighed. “Right. Past the guys who are following us.”

Alistair glared at his friend. “You have the _worst_ luck.”

“Hold on, now, you’ve been there for just as much bad luck as I have,” Daylen shot back. “For all we know, _you’re_ the one with bad luck!”

Alistair shook his head. “Let’s just move.”

—ROTG—

An hour later, Alistair poked his head out of the brush and stepped onto the road.  Daylen followed closely behind, brushing dirt off his robes. The warrior glanced down the road, before looking at his friend. “Do you think we managed to circle around them?”

“Mage!” The lead Templar barked. “Halt!”

“Oh, balls,” Daylen muttered, feeling his hands shake briefly, and stopped walking. The five-man team surrounded them. Three had weapons already drawn, a variety of swords and maces. One carried a bow, but had not yet nocked an arrow. The last one carried a massive maul strapped to his back.

“You are under arrest,” the Templar with the maul said. “You will come with us to the Circle Tower.”

“Not happening,” Daylen said flatly.

The Templar sneered. “You are a mage. You have no right to defy our authority.”

“He's authorized to be outside the tower,” Alistair said. The Templar backhanded him in response, and Alistair fell to one knee, blood dripping from his mouth. Daylen had staggered to one side in surprise, and one of the Templars he had accidentally strayed close to shoved him. The Warden landed hard on his rear, coughing out a pained breath on impact.

“You will come with us or you will die,” the Templar growled.

“Alistair, you hurt badly?” Daylen asked.

“Split lip,” Alistair mumbled. “I'll live.”

“Silence!” The lead Templar barked. “I will not repeat my order, mage. Submit to our authority and come with us to the Circle Tower.”

“Alistair,” Daylen said. “I think I should go with them.”

“What? Why? They have no authority over you! You're a Warden.” The Templar archer flinched, but the lead Templar simply crossed his arms and glared at him.

“We're outnumbered and they've got the drop on us. Even if this one is an arse, he's doing what he thinks is his job.” Daylen glared up at the Templar. “Once we get to the Circle, I'll have Irving and Greagoir sit him down and shut him up.”

“That might take weeks.”

“Yes, but I'm a Warden. Once this dick realizes that, I'll join back up with you.”

The lead Templar broke in. “Even if you were able to prove that, the Wardens are regicides and traitors.”

“Well that's a load of shite,” Alistair coughed, spitting out a fragment of a cracked tooth. “Loghain abandoned us at Ostagar.” He shook his head, looking up at the Templar. “And you will _not_ be taking him.”

“Templars, we have resistance,” the leader said. The others reached for their weapons.

Daylen sighed. “Damn.” Pressing two fingers to his forehead, he sent out a blast of mental energy, staggering the archer and two of the other Templars. Pushing himself to his feet, he brought one boot up into the leader's unarmored crotch, sending the man to his knees with a pained squeal. Alistair had drawn his sword and shield, blocking a blow from the remaining Templar's mace and slapping him across the bucket helmet with the flat of his sword. The Templar staggered, his ears ringing from the blow, and Alistair's sword dipped low, stabbing the man in the foot. The man collapsed, and Alistair kicked his weapon away before engaging the other two Templars as they staggered to their feet.

Behind him, Daylen was frantically dodging blows from the archer's daggers, the bow laying discarded several yards away. A blast of elemental frost splashed against the Templar's armor and dissipated against the enchanted metal. The mage cursed under his breath, dodging another stabbing thrust. Lacking options, he turned tail and ran, sprinting past the two Templars Alistair had disabled. One was clutching a severed hamstring, while the other had lost his helmet and received a shield to the face. Alistair was ducking or deflecting heavy blows from the leader's heavy maul, several dents in his shield showing the effects of a glancing blow from the weapon.

“Mage, halt!” The archer barked as Daylen opened more distance between them. “So be it.” Raising his arms to the sky, he called down a Holy Smite.

It felt like an ogre had punched Daylen in the brain. He felt his magic ebbing away, and his tongue went numb as his mind clouded. He stumbled, tripped, and fell, sprawling across the ground.

Alistair spotted his friend falling and turned. “Daylen!” The lead Templar's next blow smashed his shield and fractured his arm. “Gah, sod off!” Cradling his arm to his chest, Alistair weaved around the next strike and stabbed the man through the thigh, twisting the blade free. “Go down!” The Templar collapsed from the mortal wound as blood gushed onto the dirt, and Alistair turned, spotting the archer closing on Daylen.

“Templar, halt!” Alistair bellowed. The Templar spun, knocking an arrow and drawing. Alistair ducked behind a tree, feeling the arrow slam into his makeshift shield and hearing a hiss as the wood began to crackle. He peeked around the edge of the tree, seeing flames guttering from the visible section of the arrowhead and eating into the wood. “Blast it.” Charging forward, he ducked another arrow as he closed in on the archer, Daylen still flopping across the ground like a beached fish. An arrow caught him on the calf, and Alistair bellowed in pain as the shaft speared through his flesh. He stumbled, and another pinged off his shoulder, before another slammed into his hip. The stumbling became staggering, and one slipped between the edges of his bracer and his pauldron to catch him in the arm. Despite the multiple wounds, Alistair was briefly grateful that the arrows he had been hit with lacked the enchantments of the one he had dodged.

The archer drew again, and Alistair felt himself beginning to slow as the blood loss began to take effect, with another arrow pinging off his gauntlet as he brought his sword up, getting close to the Templar archer. The Templar dropped the bow, drawing a pair of daggers and kicking Alistair in the side, knocking the warrior to the ground.

Alistair was watching the Templar twirling his daggers to perform a killing strike on him when he heard an echoing bark, and the archer looked up just in time for Cupcake to slam into him at a flat sprint, knocking the Templar away. The dog snarled, and the Templar’s daggers dropped to the ground, Cupcake’s jaws closing around the Templar’s neck and ripping flesh open.

“Alistair!” Leliana shouted, running in with her bow up and an arrow knocked. “Oh, Maker.”

“I’m all right,” Alistair coughed. “Where’s Daylen?”

“Over ‘ere,” the mage slurred, sitting up. “Ow.” He shivered, tugging his robes closer around himself. “Can I not do that again?”

“Daylen, focus,” Leliana snapped. “Alistair is badly hurt!”

“He’s been hit with a Holy Smite,” Alistair said, feeling cold sweat spreading across his body. “He won’t be good to use magic for at least half a day.”

“Satchel,” Daylen mumbled, patting himself down. “Elfroot will stop the bleeding.”

“I’ve got one in my belt,” Alistair said, reaching down with his unbroken arm and grimacing as the arrow wound in his hip protested his movement. Tugging the vial free, he gulped the liquid down, gasping as the pain radiating through his body faded. “Can you pull these damned things out of me so the wounds can close?”

“Drink another as she does,” Daylen warned, shaking his head. “Andraste’s arse, I feel like I got drunk, got poisoned, and got concussed. If there was anything left in my stomach I’d throw it up.”

“Just sit there for a bit,” Leliana ordered Daylen, before working the arrow out of Alistair’s hip. The warrior flinched, gasping as the wound began to close. “You were lucky, there. The wound was shallow and the arrowhead did not break off.”

“No survivors,” Sten reported, rejoining the group as Leliana yanked the shaft of another arrow out of Alistair’s calf, the warrior yelping in pain.

Alistair looked over in confusion. “What do you mean, no survivors, I left all but one alive!”

“No, survivors,” Sten repeated, speaking as if he were addressing a child.

“You executed them?” Daylen asked.

“ _Parshaara_. Yes. They would only have tried again otherwise.”

Daylen struggled to his feet, heading for the bodies Morrigan was inspecting. The mage had two staves across her back, and Daylen recognized his own as one of them. “Good.”

“Good?” Alistair tried to rise as well, only to be pushed back down by Leliana. “How can you say that?”

Daylen turned around, his face twisted in confusion. “Alistair, they just tried to _murder us._ Not just arrest, outright murder, simply because I didn’t hop to it when they gave me an order. Pardon me if I don’t spare any tears for them.” He limped over to the bodies, giving Morrigan a nod. “How did you find us?”

“Your dog,” Morrigan said, eyeing the body of the Templar leader with distaste. “He picked up your scent and we tracked you across the ridge.” She unslung his staff, handing it back to him. “Next time, try not to lose your only weapon.”

“Right,” Daylen mumbled. “You search the bodies yet?”

“Some. Are you looking for their orders?”

“I doubt they’d have written orders, especially concerning the murder of a Warden,” Daylen said, falling to his knees beside the leader’s body and patting down the man’s pockets. He pulled out a wad of papers and looked up at Morrigan. “Or maybe not. Regardless, I’m looking for my phylactery. I’m guessing that’s how they tracked us.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “That you allowed them to place such a leash on you in the first place…”

“Sod off,” Daylen snapped. “It wasn’t my decision.” Morrigan scoffed, and Daylen glared at her. “When three Templars hold down a six-year-old child and slice his arm open to draw blood for the phylactery, it’s not the child’s choice.” His eyes widened, and he fished out a tiny, glowing vial of blood from the leader’s pocket. “Maker…this is it.”

“So smash it and be done with it,” Morrigan said.

“Right,” Daylen replied absently, still staring at the phylactery. “Let’s pack up. We have to keep moving.” Morrigan nodded and left, and Alistair limped over, finding Daylen still staring at his phylactery.

“So they did have your phylactery,” Alistair said. “Blast it. That means the Templars are after you after all.”

“Good luck to them,” Daylen sighed, rolling the phylactery around his fingers. “This is the only way to track me. If this were destroyed, I’d be completely free of the Chantry’s control. They can cast spells on mages using these things, you know. It’s a leash in the worst possible way.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Alistair asked. There was a long, pregnant pause. “Daylen?”

Daylen stood, turning it over in his hand. “You take it.”

Alistair stepped back. “Come again?”

“Take it. If I slip, if I get possessed…there’s nobody else I could count on to put me down,” Daylen said. “It’s too necessary to destroy. Too valuable to give to the Chantry. We’re going to be doing whatever we have to in order to stop the Blight, and I want to do this without sacrificing who we are and what we stand for. I need someone to watch my back, and to make sure I don’t lose my way. That’s you. You’re capable of keeping me on the straight and narrow.”

“And you would trust _me_ with this.”

“Alistair, you’re the only person in Thedas I would trust with this right now,” Daylen said firmly, still holding the phylactery out. “Consider it a sign of my faith in you.”

Alistair coughed, turning his head away for a moment. He cleared his throat noisily, before turning back, his eyes suspiciously glassy. “I…all right, Daylen. If you’re sure.” His hands were shaking slightly as he took the phylactery from the mage, and he carefully tucked it away.

Daylen swallowed hard, before nodding. “Right then. Let’s get back to camp. It’s been a long day.” The two leaned on each other every few steps as they rejoined the group, Alistair limping and Daylen walking on shaky legs.

—ROTG—

“Warden,” Sten began.

Daylen looked up from his meal. His stomach had settled after an hour or two, but he had found his appetite even greater than it had become after his Joining. “What’s on your mind, Sten?”

“The Blight – how will you end it?”

Daylen rolled his eyes, setting the bowl down. “Well, I thought we’d just ask the darkspawn to please leave.”

“If you hope to slay the archdemon with wit, you may wish to arm yourself first.”

“Scathing,” Daylen said, trying not to snarl at Sten. “What’s your point, Sten?”

“You say you are a Grey Warden. I have heard stories of this order. Great strategists and peerless warriors. So far I am not impressed.”

Something snapped in him. “I had been a Warden for less than two days when I saved your sorry hide, Sten. In the last day, I’ve been ambushed, dropped off a cliff, nearly frozen, hunted, assaulted, and hit with a Holy Smite. If you’ve got a problem, I have a few suggestions for what you can do with it, but they may not translate into your native tongue very well.  I’m not here to impress you.”

“Evidently not. It remains only to see what you _are_ here for.”

—ROTG—

“I bring word, sire,” the man said, approaching Loghain from behind. “There are demands from the Bannorn that you step down from the regency.” He paused, awaiting a response, but Loghain focused on the report in his hand, a half-filled goblet of wine in the other. The man tilted his head, graying hair falling across his brow. “They are said to be gathering their forces. As are your allies. It appears it will be civil war after all, despite the darkspawn. Pity.” Still no response from Loghain, and he coughed delicately before continuing. “I also have an interesting report. There seem to be Grey Wardens who survived Ostagar.” At that, Loghain finally raised his head, although he did not turn around. “How, I don’t know, but they _will_ act against you. Their leader explicitly said they were coming for you. I have arranged for a…solution, with your leave.”

An elf dressed in lightweight leather armor stepped forward, blond hair swept back, with a pair of blades strapped across his back. “The Antivan Crows send their regards,” he said, a faint accent coloring his words.

“Against Grey Wardens, we will need the very best, sire,” the man went on.

“And the most expensive,” the elf added as Loghain chugged from the goblet.

Loghain looked back momentarily, before turning back to his reports. “Just get it done.”

—ROTG—

Daylen felt prickling on the back of his neck as they made for the road again. “Does anybody else feel it’s been peaceful for too long?”

“Daylen, it’s been less than a day since we found the others again,” Alistair replied.

Daylen nodded emphatically. “Exactly. It’s been almost a day, and nobody’s tried to kill us!”

As if on cue, a harried-looking woman sprinted towards them from further down the road. “Oh, thank the Maker! We need help! They attacked the wagon, please help us! Follow me, I’ll take you to them!” She turned and ran back the way she had come, and Daylen sighed.

“This is a trap,” Leliana said softly.

“Agreed,” Alistair added. “No sounds of battle, no screams, nothing. We’re being lured in.”

“Should we…turn around?” Daylen asked.

“We don’t really have another option,” Alistair sighed. “Spring the trap, I suppose.”

“Weapons drawn, but don’t get separated or bunched up,” Leliana said, checking a handful of arrows and shifting her quiver. Daylen drew his staff, keeping close to Alistair as they headed down the road.

“Oh, Maker, this is _so_ a trap,” Alistair said as the caravan came into view. “No bodies, no blood, high ground on both sides.”

Daylen felt his robes shift over his body as his skin hardened, and as an elf stepped out from behind one of the wagons to greet the woman, Daylen spotted several men emerging from behind the other wagons and running out along the high ground to the left and right. Daylen heard a creaking from behind them and glanced up, before shoving Morrigan and Alistair forward, diving forward as a tree fell across the path behind them. “Sod it, take them,” Daylen rasped, pushing himself to his feet.

“The Warden dies he-” the elf broke off as a lump of conjured stone from Daylen slammed into his face, sending him flopping back across the wagon. As he slumped to the ground, the woman began weaving magic, only to stagger back as the mana evaporated.

Morrigan smiled as her spell took effect, and Daylen shot her a confused glance before ducking as an arrow streaked by his ear, pinging off the edge of his staff. Leliana snarled, aiming carefully and spearing the enemy archer through the neck. Drawing and firing again, she dropped another archer, and Daylen stepped into the path of another arrow aimed at her, his mage shield snapping into place.

Alistair yanked his sword back out of the chest of a dying assassin as Sten shattered another’s skull with the pommel of his greatsword, the two warriors flowing from strike to counter-strike to killing blow with deceptive ease.

Leliana dodged another arrow that pinged off Daylen’s hardened skin, prompting a response in the form of a fireball that set the archer alight as the rogue put down an assassin that was about to blindside Morrigan.

Alistair was engaging the last rogue, a gaunt man carrying a sword and dagger as the others waited for a clear shot. The assassin attempted to feint around his shield, and Alistair scoffed, parrying the sword strike with his own and slamming the rogue in the chest twice with the front of his targe, before ramming his sword through the man’s stomach and twisting the blade.

“Everyone all right?” Daylen asked, rubbing a bruise where the arrow had hit him. A chorus of affirmative replies came back, and he shrugged. “Some assassins,” he said, kicking over the one of the bodies. “I mean, wouldn’t it have been smarter to simply barrage us with arrows and spells from cover without the whole ‘the Warden dies here’ nonsense? After all, they had a mage. One fireball would have probably knocked us all out of the fight.”

There was a pained yelp, and the party turned to find a battered and bleeding assassin wrenching Morrigan into an arm lock, the point of his dagger against her neck.

“Who missed one?” Daylen snapped.

“Drop your weapons!” the man ordered.

“Not going to happen,” Alistair growled.

“I swear, I’ll kill her!” the man shouted, his knife to Morrigan’s pale throat.

He seemed very confused when the entire group bar Sten – who looked unimpressed as usual – began laughing uproariously.

“Oh, boy,” Daylen said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Mate, you really don’t want to do that. In fact, if I were you, I would just start running.”

“I’ve got the hostage,” the man spat. “I’m holding her.”

“No, you’re holding a giant angry spider,” Daylen said calmly. 

The man looked over to see Morrigan finish shapeshifting, and screamed as she leapt upon him, her fangs ripping into soft tissue.

“Well, that’s appetizing,” Daylen remarked, wincing as Morrigan finished ripping the man apart and shapeshifted back.

“Got another live one here,” Leliana announced. “The elf. Their leader, I think.”

“He awake?” Daylen asked.

Leliana checked him over. “Unconscious and bleeding, but alive.”

“Disarm him, search him, then wake him up,” Daylen ordered. “I want answers.”

A brief jolt of lightning had the elf’s eyes fluttering open, and Daylen watched the elf roll over, wiping at the blood trickling from his nose and ear as he did. “Mm, what?” His eyes focused, and he blinked hard. “Oh. I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

“That could be easily rectified, if you’d like,” Daylen offered.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” the elf said. “You are most skilled. If you haven’t killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?”

“Awfully glib for a prisoner, aren’t you?” Daylen remarked. “Especially one who just had his entire group of assassins wiped out and took a rock to the face before landing a single strike.”

The elf chuckled and shrugged. “It is my way, or so I am told. Let’s see, then. I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes?” Daylen nodded, and the elf cleared his throat before continuing. “Let me save you time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”

Daylen hissed out a breath. “The Crows. Shit.”

“You know them?” Alistair asked.

“Not personally, no,” Daylen admitted. “But there are stories about them. Group of assassins, thieves, spies, known throughout Thedas.” He extended a hand to Alistair. “Congratulations. Someone is taking us seriously as a threat.” The warrior looked incredulously at Daylen, and the mage looked back to Zevran. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Why not?” The elf shrugged. “I wasn’t paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely.”

“Were you paid to give up information this easily?” Daylen asked, looking around to see if the elf was buying time for another assassin to get into position.

“Consider it something I’m throwing in for free.”

“Who hired you?” Alistair asked.

“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I believe his name was.”

Daylen’s head snapped around, looking back at Zevran. “You said Loghain hired you?”

Zevran nodded. “An associate of his handled the initial contact, but yes.”

Daylen’s eye twitched. “Well, I did tell him he’d need to do better than a handful of soldiers. I guess sending a paid assassin is the next step. That’s it. We’re going to Denerim.”

“Why Denerim?” Alistair asked.

“Because I can’t kill Loghain from here,” Daylen replied calmly, before pointing at Zevran. “You’re coming with us.”

“What?” Alistair yelped. “You’re taking the assassin along?”

Daylen nodded. “He needs us. He failed. Even if he tries to kill us down the line, and succeeds, the Crows will kill him anyway for his first failure. It makes them look bad.”

Zevran looked at him curiously. “Why bring me along?”

“Because you would know the security there and I can use an assassin when I’m going to assassinate someone,” Daylen said as if it were obvious.

“Really?” Zevran asked. “I…really?”

“You can come along,” Daylen shrugged. “You’re going to kill Loghain for us. I already recruited a murderous Qunari. Why not add an assassin to the group?”

The elf blinked. “What.”

“I need information,” Daylen said. “When were you to see Loghain next?”

“I wasn’t. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results. If he didn’t already know. If I failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then.”

“ _If_ you had failed?” Daylen echoed.

“What can I say?” Zevran said brightly. “I am an eternal optimist. Although the chances of succeeding at this point seem a bit slim, don’t they?” The elf chuckled nervously, the laughter dying under Daylen’s stony stare. “No, I don’t suppose you’d find that funny, would you.” Daylen continued his best impression of Sten, and Zevran shrugged. “Look, I cannot help you with Loghain. He knows that there would be no further contact with me, and my presence would warn him an attempt on his life was coming. So, unless you’re quite stuck on cutting my throat or something equally gruesome, perhaps you’d care to hear a proposal?”

Daylen gasped, looking scandalized. “We barely know each other!”

Zevran burst out laughing, before coughing. “Ow, ow, please, don’t make me laugh. Well, here’s the thing. You are correct. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you are obviously the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead.”

Daylen crouched low, looking the assassin the eyes. Behind the carefully guarded expression, Daylen saw the same eyes he had seen in numerous mages facing Tranquility. “What do you want in return?”

“Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you,” Zevran admitted. And somewhere down the line, if you should decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?”

Daylen grunted noncommittally. “Sell me on the idea, Zevran. Why would I want your service?”

“Why?” The elf echoed. “Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth to picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more…sophisticated, now that my attempts have failed. I also know a great many jokes. Twelve massage techniques, six different card games? I do wonderful at parties, no?”

Daylen sighed. “All right then. I accept.”

Zevran nodded, standing up. “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This I swear.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here. This place is a little too…corpsey, for my liking.” He looked over at Leliana and Sten. “Let’s collect the weapons, armor, any coin or items we can salvage. We’ll need the funds.”

—ROTG—

“Daylen,” Alistair asked quietly as they entered Denerim’s market district. “Are you sure about this?”

“No, I’m not,” Daylen admitted. “If we kill Loghain, then we really _are_ guilty of killing nobility. Sure, he started it, but it’s going to be a lot more difficult to gather the army we need when the regent is trying to have us killed.” He looked away for a moment, before shaking his head. “It’s still sinking in that we’re all that’s left. That we’re raising _an army_. It’s on us.”

“Focus,” Alistair urged. “You think about this too hard and you’ll wind up going crazy.”

Daylen shook himself out of his reverie. “Right. You’re right. Let’s move.” Cupcake trotted off into the market, and Daylen paused. “Well, I suppose he’s just going off to do some shopping,” he said. “Try not to scare too many people!”

Cupcake came running back, dropping low on his front paws and wriggling his stumpy tail happily. A young boy ran up after him.

“Puppy!” The boy cheered.

“Maker! Where’d you get that?” Daylen asked, pointing at the boy. Cupcake whuffed and wagged his tail in response. “You can’t keep him! Put him back where he belongs.” The dog gave a low whine. “He’s too young to fight with us, you know that!” An exasperated snuffle, and the dog ran off again with the boy in tow. “Anyway.”

"I... have never seen such a collection of merchants and people before," Morrigan said. "'Tis always so?"

"Most of the time, yes," Leliana replied. "It gets busier during the spring when the ships come in more often."

The group circled around the market, Daylen’s breath hitching as he passed a surly-looking Knight-Captain standing outside a noble’s estate. He was so distracted by the presence of the Templar that he bumped into a man in heavy plate. “Oh, terribly sorry,” Daylen mumbled, backing up. “Apologies, ser.”

“I recognize you…from Ostagar,” the man said. Daylen took another look at the man, not recognizing him. “Andraste’s blood, you’re a Grey Warden!” His face twisted. “Duncan’s apprentice! You killed my friend – and good King Cailan. I demand satisfaction, ser!”

“I…what?” Daylen blinked, still distracted. “Satisfaction?”

“An uncommon traitor deserves no common death," the man declared. "We will meet on the field of honor, and my blade shall see justice done. Meet me in the back alley behind the Gnawed Noble Tavern. There we will duel.”

Daylen shook his head. “Look, Loghain’s charges against the Wardens are false.”

“So you would compound slander on top of treason? You _dare_ smear Teyrn Loghain’s word?”

“And he dares smear mine? And the good name of the Wardens?” Daylen snapped back. “The wanker abandoned his king – and his son-in-law – and pinned it on the only group interested in facing darkspawn. If you believe otherwise, you’re dumber than you look, and that’s going places! I won’t fight a misled fool.”

“But honor demands you accept!”

Daylen gave a frustrated growl. “All right, fine! If you insist on dying horribly, you’ll get your blasted duel. Head over there and I’ll be right over to smear you across the walls.”

The knight nodded. “Make peace with the Maker, ser. These are your last moments.” He stalked off, his fingers drumming on the pommel of his mace.

“I’m not that lucky!” Daylen called after him.

“Are you really going to fight him?” Zevran asked. “Why not simply have us all take him at once?”

“If he knows Loghain, he might have information on how to get at him,” Daylen replied. “He’ll talk before he dies.”

The group entered the back alley, finding the knight waiting with three armed and armored companions. “Are you ready?” The knight asked. “I am no savage. I would not take advantage of you.”

“Will nothing convince you to stop?” Daylen asked.

“Nothing at all, ser. I am honor-bound to kill you now.”

Daylen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Very well. Before I kill you, ser knight, I would know your name.”

“I am Ser Landry,” the knight replied. “And you are?”

“Daylen Amell. A man should know the name of the person who ends his life,” Daylen replied. “I’m ready. Let us fight one-on-one.”

“May the Divine look after you, ser. You’ve held yourself with honor.” Landry drew his mace and made it a whole two steps before Daylen froze him in place and broke his sword arm with a lump of conjured stone.

Daylen stepped close to the injured and immobilized knight. “Now listen up, Ser Landry, because you have one chance to use your head for something besides filling your helmet. Use your wits. The Wardens would never do anything to help the darkspawn. And right now they’re running amok across Ferelden, with nobody standing in their way because Loghain is too busy trying to pin his regicide on the Wardens. Think about this! Why would we kill Cailan?”

The ice shattered, and the knight collapsed, clutching his injured arm. “I do not like your tone, ser. But…you may be right. I may regret this, but I cannot kill someone who may be guiltless.”

“I was there too, Landry,” Daylen said softly. “I nearly died there when Loghain quit the field, taking the army with him and abandoning Cailan and the Wardens to the darkspawn. I’m here to make him pay for it. The man hired the Antivan Crows to try to eliminate us.”

“What?” Landry gasped. “Why would he do that?”

“Because his soldiers weren’t enough,” Daylen spat. “The stupid sod wants to eliminate all threats to his taking control. We’re a threat. We can expose what he’s done, and we’re raising an army to fight the darkspawn. He thinks we’re raising an army against him.” Daylen snorted in derision at the concept. “As if he’s important enough.”

“What do you plan to do?” Landry asked.

“End him.”

“I meant with me,” Landry said pointedly. “Loghain is not in Denerim. I am at your mercy, Warden.”

Daylen shook his head. “I have no intention of killing you, Ser Landry. You are an honorable man, if misinformed. You’ve heard me out. You fought with honor, if you can call that fighting.” The man winced as his arm shifted, and the Warden went on. “Your arm is broken. Seek healing, or allow me to heal that for you, but I have no intention of causing you further harm.” The man extended his arm, grimacing as he did, and Daylen clasped hands with him, pumping healing magic into the injured limb. Landry groaned as the bones ground back together, shaking the pins and needles out of the arm as Daylen released his hand. “Go in peace, ser knight.”

“And you as well, Warden.”

Daylen sighed heavily as the knights left. “Let’s get out of here.”

Alistair shrugged. “What exactly were you thinking?”

“I dunno,” Daylen said. “Pub?”

—ROTG—

“Six pints of ale, and…” Daylen looked over at the others. “What are you all having?”

“Rough day, mate?” the bartender asked.

“You have no idea,” Daylen said. “Heard any rumors lately?”

The bartender nodded. “Darkspawn have attacked Lothering,” he said quietly. “I don’t think everyone even had fled by the time they came, either. Word has it that they swarmed the entire area, making off with prisoners, burning down the buildings, then they were gone just as quick. Wonder if there’s anyone left. I heard some Chanters were going to head down south, maybe find some survivors, but I’m not holding out hope, myself.”

Daylen looked down at his ale, dropped a few coppers on the bar counter, and left without another word.

—ROTG—

Daylen stood in the hall of the Denerim Chantry, eyeing the stained glass and the frescoes on the walls. A Chantry sister maintained a respectful distance, and another was speaking quietly with a pair of nobles across the room.

The Warden tilted his head back, feeling the weight of everything he had to save bearing down on him at once. “Maker, we’ve never been on the best of terms. I’m not the praying type. Not great with authority figures. And I figured you had some big plan in the works, and let’s face it, mate, anything I asked for would probably mess that up a bit.” Daylen paused, wondering if a bolt of divine retribution was inbound for addressing a god so informally. “Regardless. If you exist, and if you’re the loving, caring Maker people seem to think you are…why haven’t you stepped in? There were a lot of people at Ostagar, in the Korcari Wilds, in the Bannorn, and now at Lothering. People who have died because of something the Chantry deems was created by our hubris. I’m trying to save lives here, trying to stop this Blight from consuming this country. And if you were ever going to intervene, now would the time. I’m just one man. I think I can make a difference, sure, but I…” Daylen’s voice cracked, and he sank into one of the pews. “I’m not enough. What can I do to stop this before any more people die?”

The silence in the Chantry was almost deafening.

The mage sighed. “Figure it out yourself, right?”

—ROTG—

_Mabari War Hounds  
Dogs are an essential part of Fereldan culture, and no dog is more prized that the mabari. The breed is as old as myth, said to have been bred from the wolves who served Dane. Prized for their intelligence and loyalty, these dogs are more than mere weapons or status symbols: The hounds choose their masters, and pair with them for life. To be the master of a mabari anywhere in Ferelden is to be recognized instantly as a person of worth._

_The mabari are an essential part of Fereldan military strategy. Trained hounds can easily pull knights from horseback or break lines of pikemen, and the sight and sound of a wave of war dogs, howling and snarling, has been known to cause panic among even the most hardened infantry soldiers._

_—From Ferelden: Folklore and History by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always confused me how the Warden has basically no reaction to the destruction of Lothering. Not that there's anything stopping the player from characterizing the Warden as a total sociopath who doesn't give a toss about the village, but that there's not even an option to comment on it. I figured someone like Daylen, someone who's never had much responsibility for anyone besides himself, would freak out when the realization of just how much was resting on his shoulders started to sink in.
> 
> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Star Wars, Episode 3. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. [ return to text ]


	8. Back on Track

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back on track - as far as things can be in such a situation.

_Ogre  
Towering over their darkspawn kin, the massive ogres are a rare sight on the battlefield. Traditionally, they only appear during a Blight, but some records claim that ogres have been spotted in the Deep Roads hunting alone or in small groups. At least one report by the Grey Wardens claims that an ogre was spotted alone in the Korcari Wilds in 9:19 Dragon, though it was weakened and easily dispatched. Up to a hundred of these creatures can accompany a darkspawn horde at any one time during a Blight, often using their great strength to burst through fortifications and demolish the front lines of the opposing army._

_They use brute force to charge their enemies like bulls, slam the ground with their fists to shake enemies off their feet, and hurl great rocks into the face of oncoming foes. Melee can be difficult against a giant that snatches a warrior up in one hand, crushing the life out of him or beating him into oblivion with the other hand. The nimble can try to wiggle his way free, or an ally can attempt an array of stunning blows on an ogre to free the comrade in danger._

_Grey Warden lore urges caution when slaying an ogre. Unless it is ensured that they have received a major wound to the head or the heart, it is possible that they are lying dormant and will regenerate to full health within a matter of minutes. During a Blight, most Grey Wardens recommend burning all darkspawn to ashes... “dead” ogres in particular._

—ROTG—

The silence in the Chantry was almost deafening.

The mage sighed. “Figure it out yourself, right?” He hunched forward in the pew, resting his head in his hands.

It felt like hours had passed when he finally raised his head, spotting a pair of Templars talking to the Revered Mother. Neither of them had looked in his direction, but the mage felt a spike of fear settle into his gut.

Time to leave.

It was only as he stood to get out of the Chantry before anyone recognized him or his robes that he caught a snippet of their conversation.

“Gather reinforcements, report to the Circle. Greagoir will need you to carry it out.”

“Yes, Your Grace. It will be done.” Daylen’s head snapped around at the honorific, and he recognized Elemena, the Revered Mother of Ferelden. Recognizing her was easy – caricatures of her from a particularly talented senior enchanter had been making the rounds of the Circle for over a decade, along with a series of nude drawings of the queen and a surprisingly well-written serial written by a merchant in the Free Marches. Shaking himself, Daylen left the Chantry immediately. If more Templars were headed to the Circle, it meant recruiting the mages would probably be more difficult. Especially considering his earlier difficulties with them. Just another issue to deal with.

Pausing on the other end of the market, Daylen spotted a poster covered with Grey Warden symbols. Brows furrowing, Daylen examined the poster. “ _Don’t believe the lies!_ ” The poster read. “ _Friends of the Grey Wardens assemble. The hidden pearl holds the key to resistance. The griffons will rise again._ ” Daylen blinked a few times, before shrugging and moving on.

Daylen wandered aimlessly, leaving the market district and walking in a daze through the other neighborhoods of Denerim. He only snapped out of it when he passed a provocatively dressed woman lounging on a couch outside a building.

“Welcome to the Pearl, love,” the woman said, winking at him as he paused at the sight. “Head on in, someone will take care of you.”

“I…” Daylen blinked. “Oh. Well, why not.”

The woman smiled broadly. “That’s the spirit!”

“Ah, Warden, I might have known you would come here,” a voice came from behind him. Daylen turned, finding Zevran leaning against a building across the street.

“Zevran,” Daylen acknowledged, before his eyes narrowed at the elf. “Have you been following me?”

“Of course,” the elf said. “Just because I no longer wish you harm does not mean the residents of Denerim feel the same. Four pickpockets had to be dissuaded from choosing you as a target.”

Daylen hissed out a breath as he realized what he had risked by walking alone in Denerim’s back alleys in his dazed state. “I…shite. Thank you, Zevran.” The elf nodded respectfully. “Question, though. Why did you want to leave the Crows? You seem very competent at your job, after all.”

“Well, now, I imagine that’s a very fair question. Being an assassin, after all, is a living at least as far as such things go. I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself, why should I not seize upon it?”

“You didn’t pick the Crows as a life?”

Zevran shrugged. “I did not have much say in the matter. I was but a boy of seven when I was purchased. For three sovereigns, I’m told. Which is a good price, considering I was all ribs and bone and didn’t know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end.”

“It’s the pointy end that goes in your hand, right?” Daylen asked.

Zevran smiled, but shook his head and went on. “The Crows buy all their assassins that way. Buy them young, raise them to know nothing else but murder. And if you do poorly in your training, you die.”

“Sounds brutal,” Daylen said. “And such a system works? I mean, that’s pretty much the Circle for you, but I didn’t think others would have the same idea.”

“Of course it works. You compete against your fellow assassins, and those who survive are rightfully proud of it. In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect. It gets you wealth. It gets you women…and men, or whatever else it is you might fancy. But that does mean doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable.”

“See, that’d be the dealbreaker for me,” Daylen said.

Zevran nodded. “It’s a cage, if a gilded cage. Pretty, but confining.”

“So what is it you fancy, exactly? What do you plan to do in the future?”

“I fancy many things. I fancy things that are beautiful and things that strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting.” Zevran paused a moment. “Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

“Not at all,” Daylen said. “You wouldn’t be the first, although you’d be the first who tried to kill me _before_ flirting with me.”

The elf shrugged. “As for what I’ll do in the future, presuming there is one? I truly can’t imagine. It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change. Far away from Antiva, of course. For now, naturally, I go where you go.”

“And when you get the first chance to betray me?” Daylen asked.

Zevran snorted. “And be slaughtered? Perish the thought!” He shook his head. “Come, now. Enough chit-chat. Talking about the Crows summons them, you know. Any Antivan fishwife could tell you so.”

“Well, we don’t have one available,” Daylen mused, “but I did summon a Crow. There’s one standing right in front of me.”

Zevran stared at him a moment. “Well played, Warden.”

Daylen smiled faintly and twitched his head at the building and the woman who had been watching with bemused interest. “Mind coming with me? If I go in alone, I may come out with all sorts of parts missing without you watching my back.”

Zevran chuckled, and nodded. “Shall we?” As they entered the building, the heavy scent of perfumes hit their noses, and Zevran smiled. “Ah, I grew up in a place such as this. They say you can never go home again…but for ten silvers an hour? You can get pretty close!”

“I suppose,” Daylen asked, looking around. “I admit, I had expected more…sex, in a brothel.”

“And you expected them to be out in the open?” Zevran asked rhetorically. “They may be paying for sex, but most clients of such places are dreadfully reserved, demanding private rooms. Many whorehouses are simply inns that offer extra services.”

“Oh,” Daylen said, smiling nervously at the madam. “Question, Zevran. Did you see that poster in the market?”

“About the friends of the Grey Wardens?” Zevran asked. “Yes, I did. You think this is the ‘hidden pearl’ it spoke of?”

“Worth a shot,” Daylen said quietly, clearing his throat and speaking to the madam. “Excuse me. We’re looking for some friends of ours. Do you have any rooms that are currently…occupied, but not by any of your people?”

The madam looked nervous, but nodded. “Last room on the left.”

“Be ready,” Daylen said quietly as they approached the door. “Could easily be a trap.”

“What’s the password?” A nasally voice demanded as Daylen knocked.

“Er…” Daylen thought for a moment about the password. “The griffons will rise again.” The lock clicked open, and Daylen pushed on the door gently, the door opening with barely a squeak.

“Another Grey Warden supporter,” one of the armed men waiting inside said triumphantly. Daylen eyed the group waiting for them – an elven female in heavy armor, two hulking Qunari, and a man in chainmail with a ponytail and a smug sneer on his face as he spoke.

“Not just a supporter, Paedan!” the elf gasped. “That one’s a Grey Warden! He’s the one Arl Howe is looking for.”

“Our trap landed a Warden?” Paedan asked. “You’ve got one chance to surrender.”

“Alright,” Daylen said easily. “Drop your weapons and I won’t kill you all. You’ve been misled. Loghain framed the Grey Wardens.”

“For what it’s worth, I believe you,” Paedan replied sincerely, before he snorted. “Not that I particularly care. We’re not common guards. We’re Howe’s elite. Let’s kill ourselves a Warden.”

Their weapons never even cleared their scabbards. Daylen flooded the narrow entryway with a heavy blast of frost, freezing all four ambushers solid. As he shattered Paedan into pieces with a conjured stone, Zevran lunged, jamming his sword through the elf’s chest and reducing her to fragments. The Warden and the assassin pushed farther into the room, ending the two supporting mercenaries in short order.

“Rather foolish of them,” Zevran commented as he rifled one of the corpses’ pockets.

“Should have known better,” Daylen sighed, retrieving a scroll and a pouch of coins from Paedan’s remains. “Even if I wasn’t a Warden, part of an organization _known_ for their combat abilities, I’m a mage. They _knew_ that I’m a mage. And yet they figured they’d have the advantage? Wouldn’t it have been smarter to just play along, get some Templars, and let them do the heavy lifting?”

“Men like this are not known for their staggering intelligence,” Zevran replied. “What is that?”

“His orders,” Daylen said absently, reading the scroll.

Zevran tutted. “See what I mean? Anyone with any brains would have memorized the orders and destroyed them.”

“Orders are from Howe,” Daylen said. “Apparently he’s going to raise the bounty per head.” He rolled up the scroll, tucking it away with a sour look on his face. “How many supporters do you think they caught, do you think?”

“Too many,” Zevran replied. “Let’s get out of here.”

Daylen nodded his assent, and the two piled the bodies in the closet before leaving, Zevran locking the door behind them. “How long before they’re noticed, do you figure?”

“A matter of hours. The smell alone will tell.” Zevran’s brow furrowed as he heard raised voices. “Wait, I know that voice…”

“I think you forget who you are speaking to,” a dark-skinned woman in well-maintained leathers was saying around the corner. “I’ll give you a chance to leave quietly.”

“You brazen hussy!” one of the men accosting her spat. “Someone needs to put you in your place!”

“Uh-oh,” Daylen murmured as they drew weapons. “We better help her.”

Zevran caught him by the elbow. “Wait. She needs no assistance.”

The assassin was soon proven right, as the woman effortlessly ducked a wild dagger strike from one man, parried another from the second, and kicked the third in the crotch hard enough to send him crashing to the floor, wheezing in pain. She backed up, flowing like water around a barrage of thrusts and slashes from the two remaining attackers, grabbing a half-empty tankard from the table and flinging its contents into one of their faces. Offhandedly parrying another strike, she cracked the blinded man over the head with the pommel of her dagger.

The third turned tail and fled as the concussed man dropped, abandoning his friends and shouting “She’s too good!”

The woman snorted. “Heh. Fools.” She raised her voice, calling after them. “Be glad all I took from you was your money!” She paused. “And your dignity!” She spotted Zevran and Daylen approaching her, and a smiled stretched her features. “And look who we have here. Come to apologize for leaving me bereft of my lord husband and then vanishing without a trace?”

“You know it was just business, Isabela. Business that turned out well for you, I see – you inherited the ship, I take it?”

“Hmph. I suppose I never did like the greasy bastard. And the _Siren_ treats me far better than she ever did him.”

“Perhaps some introductions are in order?” Daylen asked, subtly eyeing the woman and appreciating the way her leathers hugged her curves.

“Indeed,” Zevran said. “This is Isabela, queen of the eastern seas and the sharpest blade in Llomerryn. And Isabela, my dear, you will no doubt be amused to discover that I am traveling with a Grey Warden.”

“A Grey Warden?” Isabela said, her voice turning smoother. “Charmed.”

Daylen found himself flushing slightly, clearing his throat and wondering when his mouth had gone dry. “Llomerryn? You’re a long way from home, Captain. Daylen Amell, at your service.”

“Just how much service?” She winked, and Daylen coughed, smiling in spite of himself.

“We’ll have to see about that. Your fighting skills are very impressive.” _And you move like sex on legs when you fight_ , he added mentally.

“I assume you saw that little drama?” She asked rhetorically. “None of those poor brutes has ever proven a match for me. They are too clumsy and predictable. I’m a duelist. I fight with quickness and wit, rather than brute force and strength.”

“Don’t suppose you could teach me how to fight like that,” Daylen said. “I tend to find myself in a lot of fights these days.”

Isabela gave an unladylike snort. “An unusual request coming from a fearsome slayer of darkspawn. I am flattered that you wish to learn from me, sweet thing. But I have watched you, and you seem to lack a particular…grace, that is required. You are accustomed to doing battle a certain way, yes?” Daylen nodded. “I can teach you some basics; perhaps you can pass it on to someone else who might be interested in what I have to offer.”

“I certainly would,” Zevran interjected.

“You _know_ what I have to offer,” Isabela replied dryly.

“Doesn’t mean I lack interest,” the elf riposted.

“In a moment,” she said, turning back to Daylen. “I do, however, wish to get to know my potential student better, so we shall call for a drink and you will honor me with a game.”

“A game?” Daylen echoed, feeling like he had lost the plot somewhere. “I…uh…are there no _other_ ways for us to get to know each other?”

“Do you…have something else in mind?” She asked.

“Well, I’m rubbish at cards,” Daylen said. “But we could board your ship, I’d like to see what’s below deck.”

“I’m sure you would,” She said, looking him up and down. “It would surely be rude of me to decline such a…delicious offer.” Looking over at the elf, Isabela raised an eyebrow. “And what about you, Zev? Shall we, for old time’s sake?”

“Oh, Isabela, you and your ridiculous appetites…perhaps we should leave it up to our friend here?” Zevran looked hopeful, and Daylen grinned.

“Hey, the more the merrier. Means I get to check one more item off the list of lifelong dreams.”

“A threesome with a pirate captain and an Antivan Crow was on that list?” Isabela asked.

“Amongst other things,” Daylen admitted. “It’s a long list.”

“We’ll have to see if there’s anything else we can check off, then,” she said lasciviously. “Come, my ship is down by the docks, and I am sure you will find my cabins quite…comfortable.”

—ROTG—

“You weren’t kidding about those massage techniques,” Daylen said, rolling his shoulders as he pulled his robes back on. “I have to admit, this was above-average for me. I don’t normally have that sort of stamina.”

“Well, that brings back memories, doesn’t it, Zev?” Isabela asked, not lifting her head off the pillow. Her hair was mussed and sweat glistened on her body as Zevran hunted around the cabin for his clothes. “Pleasant ones, even.”

“For you, maybe,” Zevran replied, pulling his tunic back on. “I still remember the time your husband tried to kill me. I had to flee across the rooftops completely unclothed.”[1]

“Ah, yes, those pleasant memories,” Isabela said fondly. Daylen grabbed his staff, slinging it over his back, and accepted his satchel back from Zevran. Glancing over at the naked and satiated woman on the bed, Daylen winked at Zevran, before grabbing Isabela by the ankle and letting a carefully controlled burst of magic loose. Isabela gasped as the sweat dotting her body flash-froze, and sat up, grumbling. “All right, all right, I’m up.” Shaking her hair out of her eyes, Isabela smiled sweetly at the boys. “Now, wasn’t there something else you wanted from me? A lesson, perhaps?”

“I think you’ve taught me plenty today,” Daylen mused, stretching. “Oh. Wait. The duelist techniques. Right.”

—ROTG—

“So, Zevran,” Daylen said as they left the ship. “I don’t suppose you have any spare coin on you. Our coffers are running somewhat low, and we’ve sold a lot of salvaged equipment, but…”

“Crows aren’t paid very well on assignment,” Zevran replied. “There are, however, always opportunities for an open-minded individual to enrich himself in a city such as this.”

“Got anything in mind?”

“While we were at that tavern, I…liberated some goods from one of the rooms, and spoke with the barkeep,” Zevran said quietly, handing over a few scraps of vellum. “I believe we can handle these ourselves, should you prefer.”

“You robbed a room?” Zevran shrugged, and Daylen sighed. “Well, I would rather not steal from innocents unless we really have to, but all right.” He scanned the job descriptions quickly. “The toxin extract samples we have, I think Leliana was carrying them. But cleaning up messes?” Daylen looked over at his ally in confusion. “What, they’re looking for a maid service?”

Zevran stared at him a moment, before shaking his head. “My apologies, Warden. I forgot you were kept in the Circle. This is asking for disposal of bodies.”

“And we’re capable of that?”

“Your magic is capable of incinerating a body, is it not?”

“Valid point,” Daylen admitted. “Let’s get this done.”

—ROTG—

“Well, that was bracing,” Daylen wheezed, leaning against the wall and waving the stench of burning bodies away from his face. “That’s all three, right?” Zevran nodded, and Daylen wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Good. Because I’m running low on mana.”

“Let us go get paid, then,” Zevran said.

The two cut back through the market district of Denerim, making for the tavern, before Daylen abruptly changed direction, keeping his head down and heading around a corner.

“Something wrong?” Zevran asked as Daylen pressed his back into the wall.

“Templars,” Daylen hissed. “We had problems with them already. I’d rather not mess with them more.”

“That is a shame,” a voice said from behind them. Daylen had his staff half-drawn and Zevran was falling into a ready guard as the speaker went on. “Apologies for surprising you like this, Warden.”

“Keep your voice _down_ ,” Daylen growled, glaring at the man. A cowl covered most of his face, but the leather armor he wore highlighted him as a possible threat, even if there were no apparent weapons. “Who are you?”

“I represent a collective of mages interested in going about their lives without the constant scrutiny of the Chantry.”

Daylen perked up. “Such a thing exists? Tell me more.”

The man nodded, and Zevran lowered his blades, but kept them drawn. “The collective is a self-policing guild of mages who simply want to be left alone. We mean no offense to the Chantry, but we would rather live on our own terms.” He gestured at a sack leaning against the wall of the alley, half-lost amongst the refuse. “Next to me, and in every major settlement, you will find an inconspicuous sack containing requests from mages all over the land who need the assistance of someone skillful and discreet.”

“I’ll take a look at these requests, but is that wise?” Daylen asked. “I’m not exactly the most-loved man in Ferelden these days, you know.”

“More people than you think sympathize with the Wardens,” the man said, tugging at the straps on his leathers. “And we all know that if the Wardens die, there won’t be much stopping the darkspawn from killing us all, will there.”

“If I can help out, I will,” Daylen promised.

“Thank you, my friend. We have agents in every major settlement to reward you for work done on behalf of the collective. Maker’s smile upon you.”

Daylen rooted through the sack, pocketing the scrolls inside and nodding to the man. They continued down the alley past the city’s Chantry, only to stop short as a man stepped into their path.

“Hello there, Warden,” he said brightly. “I’m a friend.”

“Does _everyone_ know who I am?” Daylen cried in exasperation. “Do I just have a ruddy great sign behind me that says ‘I’m a Warden!’ in great big letters?” [2]

“Your likeness has been shown to some of the guards,” the man replied calmly. “Managed to get a peek at it myself.”

Daylen sighed. “All right. Who are you and what do you want.”

“The name is Slim Couldry, and if you’ve heard of me, I’ve been doing a sad job of it, haven’t I? I hear a great many things. For example, I’ve heard you’re putting up the good fight against Loghain and that wretched prick Howe. Good for you. Maker spit on all those arrogant noble bastards. I’ve also heard you have certain…skills. Skills of the street, you might say. No judgments here, mate.”

“You learn fast in a place like the Circle,” Daylen replied quietly. “What’s it to you?”

“I want to help you take the nobles down a peg.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow, keeping his hands low but ready in case this turned out to be a trap. “Why? What’d they do to you?”

“Besides feasting and holding revels while my family starves? Why, not much. In fact, they’re beautiful, kind…” Slim paused a moment. “Callous, wretched, depraved, and Maker-cursed, self-centered _bastards_!” He cleared his throat. “Sorry about that. They just need taking down a rung or two.”

“Well, I’ve never met a noble worth a toss,” Daylen said, scratching his beard. “But you still haven’t given me any details.”

“For those who view certain pesky laws as mere nuisances, there’s some ripe fruit to be plucked out there.”

“So…theft,” Daylen said. “Petty or grand?”

“The grander the target, the grander the theft,” Slim replied. “I can point the way. All I ask for is a little slice for myself.”

“And what will you do with your cut?” Daylen asked, suspecting he knew the answer.

“My share goes to a good cause. The poor. My family. I’ve got _fifteen cousins_. Fifteen. Can you imagine? My uncle must walk around with a permanent bulge! It’s disturbing, that is.”

“It’s impressive,” Zevran quipped. “Such…productivity…takes dedication.”

Daylen fought a grin. “Tell me more. I’m interested.” He paused a moment. “In your offer, not your uncle.”

“Well, one of my mates noticed your skills – nice piece of work that, uncommon caliber if you don’t mind me saying – but I need to know what else you can do. Ever done bump-and-grabs? Do much blending in shadows? Different opportunities for different folk, you know.”

“I’m a capable if not excellent pickpocket,” Daylen admitted. “Not great at hiding in the shadows, but luckily,” he looked at Zevran, “I have people for that. So let’s hear about it all. Raising armies is expensive.”

“Oh, you’re multitalented, are you? Don’t get much of that in these parts. Since the guard’ll hang or skewer you if you get caught, it makes advancement dicey. Now that we have that settled, just ask away. One point – I don’t like blood much. Call me old-fashioned, but the Maker says thou shalt not strangle, decapitate, or what not unless the other fella really had it coming, eh? I realize sometimes you do what you have to. But restraint, right?”

“Agreed,” Daylen said. “I’m no bandit. A thief, sure. But I want these sods alive to see what they’ve lost.”

“So what are you interested in? I’ve got a mark already lined up.

A moment to count out the silver, and Slim nodded. “Let’s hear it,” Daylen urged.

“Should be easy-pickings. A lady’s maid is in the marketplace. She’s wearing bright green – should be easy to spot. She’s got a purse with some of her mistress’s ill-gotten gems. Just relieve her of her purse and then we both come out ahead.”

The Warden nodded, stroking his beard. “How about break-ins?”

“I’ve got a place for you, should be easy money as well. It’ll cost one sovereign.”

Daylen dug around in his coin pouch, finding a sovereign “Lady Sophie is an intimate of Arl Howe…real intimate. She’s visiting the country – because that’s what rich folk do when the whole bloody kingdom is in danger. Sorry, they just got me so _angry_.” He cleared his throat. “Her room in the Gnawed Noble Tavern is unattended. That means her valuables are just there for the taking. You get the…” Slim looked concerned at Zevran’s unimpressed expression. “tavern…staff…what? What is it?”

“I already broke into that room,” Zevran said flatly.

“Maker’s blood,” Slim said. “Well, right then. Here’s your money back. I, uh…” he scratching his chin, thinking hard. “Give me another chance. I know of another opportunity. It’s bigger. Four sovereigns.”

Daylen frowned, but handed over the money. “This better be worth it.”

“Arl Howe uses a warehouse in the Market District from time to time. Word is the arl’s been dipping into the city’s treasury and discreetly moving silver bars to his estate in Highever. There’s a fortune in that warehouse right now. And if you succeed here, Arl Howe gets a big black eye. But guards will be everywhere…not those half-arsed dock guardsmen, either. Generally, I’m opposed to killing – but these are the arl’s handpicked hatchet men and stealth’s not really an option. So good luck, I’m rooting for you.”

“Let’s go for the pickpocket job first,” Daylen said, before looking at Zevran. “You want the distraction or the groping?”

Zevran looked offended. “Why, the groping of course. Besides, no lady’s maid would deign to speak to me, an elf.”

“Right,” Daylen agreed. “Let’s go.”

They found the maid in the market, the green of her dress standing out against the warmer colors of the other market patrons. The mage rooted around in his satchel for a moment, finding a Chasind-inspired necklace he had looted from the ruins in the Brecelian Forest. “Pardon me, my lady,” Daylen said graciously, nodding to the Antivan merchant. “But I saw someone bump into you in the market a moment ago, and I believe you may have dropped this.”

The maid took one look at the necklace in Daylen’s hand and raised an eyebrow, not noticing as Zevran smoothly relieved her of the pouch of gems. The merchant looked quizzically at Daylen, but ignored Zevran. “Certainly not,” the maid said archly. “I would never be caught wearing such a thing.”

“My mistake,” Daylen apologized. “I must have seen someone else drop it. Good day to you, miss.”

“What would you have done if she accepted the necklace?” Zevran asked.

“Panicked,” Daylen replied bluntly.

“One lady’s maid, groped and robbed,” Slim said happily as they approached. “Or that’s how I’ll imagine it happened. Well done, Warden!”

“Not bad for a first attempt,” Daylen agreed. “We’ll have to wait until we meet up with the others to take on Howe’s men at that warehouse.” The memory of Bodahn’s unfortunate incarceration in Orzammar arose in his mind. “Where can we sell these gems that won’t get us or anyone else in trouble?”

Slim snorted. “Most anywhere in the market. So much goes through this place in the way of goods that there’s really nobody that can keep track of it.”

“Good to know. Got any other pickpocket marks?”

“Absolutely! It’s another sovereign, but I think you might like this one, too.” Daylen paid the man, hoping that the payoff would be worth it. “Ser Nancine has a fancy and _expensive_ sword, paid for courtesy of her oppressive taxes on her lands. She’s going to be at the Wonders of Thedas soon, no doubt figuring new ways to kick her peasants where it hurts. The swipe will be tougher – she’s got good eyes and stealing a sword from a scabbard isn’t easy. If you can blend in the shadows, that might help. Good hunting, Warden.”

Slim was absolutely right about where to find Ser Nancine. The knight was standing in Wonders of Thedas, examining a wall full of books and sniffling. The knight gave a wet cough as they approached and grumbled to herself about the weather.

“If you see a real opportunity, go for it, but be careful,” Daylen said quietly to Zevran, before raising his voice. “Pardon me.”

“Ah, a peasant.” Nancine coughed again. “How delightful.”

“Oh, my, you are ill, aren’t you,” Daylen said mournfully. “Apologies, I’m an herbalist of some skill.”

“You are?” Nancine asked, her interest piqued. “I’ve been meaning to stop by the apothecary. I have this tickle in the back of my throat.”

“Really?” Daylen hummed to himself, checking the knight over. “Breathe deeply for me, then breathe out, please.”

“Hm. For a drably dressed commoner, you seem knowledgeable enough,” the knight said, making it halfway through a breath before coughing again.”

Daylen frowned. “I need to listen to your lungs. Remove the armor.”

The knight looked deeply uncomfortable. “Is that _really_ necessary?”

“You can never be too careful, right? Many deadly ailments start off as a simple cough. It starts in the lungs and then…” Daylen shook his head. “Why am I telling you this, you’re clearly a woman of the world, of course you know.”

“You’re the expert,” Nancine said with a shrug. “Could you help me with the straps?”

“I’d be happy to,” Daylen said, fighting a gleeful smile as Zevran quietly walked away with her sword.

“This may take a moment…bloody straps.” A few minute’s work had the knight standing around in a tunic and breeches. “There’s nothing wrong with me, right?”

“Well, it’s not fatal, I can promise you that,” Daylen pronounced after a few moment’s perusal, before deciding to press his luck. “However, you’ll want to stay warm and dry for a week or two, just to help get rid of this. For a modest fee, I can sell you some medicine that could help you.”

“I thought you were some sort of common thug, but you’ve surprised me,” the knight admitted, digging in her coin purse. “Here’s two sovereigns.”

Daylen measured out some herbs from his satchel, pocketing the money. “Brew this tea, drink it thrice daily. Keep warm and dry and try not to work long hours. You’ll be fine.”

To his credit, Daylen made it all the way out of the shop before bursting out laughing, spotting Zevran waiting nearby with Nancine’s sword. “Oh, that was too much fun.”

“I am impressed,” Zevran said. “Not many people could persuade a knight to undress in the middle of a shop.”

“ _And get paid for it_!” Daylen crowed, holding up the two gold coins he had been paid. “I sold her some herbs to help her with her cough.”

“Will they work?”

Daylen snorted. “All she’s going to get out of those herbs is a lousy cup of tea.” The Warden looked over at the sound of canine feet pattering across the paving stones, and Daylen smiled as he saw Cupcake approaching.

“Daylen!” The two turned to see Alistair and the others  approaching. “Finally!”

“Sorry for leaving like that,” Daylen said as the two groups rejoined. “It’s been a full day.”

“I’ll say,” Alistair replied. “We’ve been looking all over for you!”

“To little success,” Morrigan added. “Little surprise, considering who was leading.”

Alistair grimaced, but continued. “We did find several shops worth notice, however. There’s a smithy nearby. I think we might need better equipment, considering what was on sale there.”

Daylen nodded. “We’ll look into it. What’s the state of our party?”

“We’ve restocked on food and pawned most of the equipment we’d salvaged. Made a tidy profit and picked up some useful items. We are rather short on coin, though.”

Daylen smiled smugly. “About that? We did some odd jobs around the city and met a few…less than legal connections you may want to know about. Made a pretty hefty amount of coin, actually, between what we’ve…liberated, and the payment from the jobs themselves.”

“We still have that warehouse job,” Zevran reminded him.

“Ah, right,” Daylen said. “Say, how would you lot feel about pissing off Arl Howe and making some money in the process?”

Ten minutes later, Daylen was cursing as he busily scrubbed at the blood spattered on his robes. “Maker, this stuff just gets everywhere,” he grumbled.

“Rub some dirt on it, it’ll come off easier,” Alistair suggested, stepping over the corpses of three of Howe’s thugs and sheathing his sword. “Now, you mentioned silver bars?”

Daylen nodded, nearly tripping over a dead crossbowman as he headed for the opposite corner of the warehouse. “Considering he’s skimming from the treasury, you would think Howe would have more than a dozen men watching a place like this.”

“Not necessarily,” Leliana chimed in, looting one of the bodies. “Such a large guard presence would certainly draw notice. Getting noticed while doing something like this is a good way to lose one’s head. Literally.”

Daylen shrugged. “I’ve never embezzled before, I wouldn’t know how to do it right.”

Alistair whistled as he opened one of the chests. “Maker, that’s a lot of silver bars.”

“Country’s at war, and this arse is stealing from the treasury,” Daylen sighed. “Great priorities.”

Leliana gave him a sly look. “It would be a shame if these went missing. I mean, Howe would just be beside himself.”

Daylen feigned indecision. “We _would_ be helping the local economy…”

Alistair sighed. “I don’t know if I could live with myself if these just sat around gathering dust.”

Daylen nodded sagely. “Taking these is the only decent thing to do.”

“We should split up when we sell them, so as to avoid arousing suspicion,” Leliana suggested.

“Agreed,” Zevran replied. “Leliana, do you have those toxin extracts? There is someone who will pay good money for them.”

“Right. Split up, meet back at the Gnawed Noble once you’re done,” Daylen ordered. “Zevran, get those poisons and come with me. We’ll let Slim know about Nancine.”

A few minutes later, Daylen saw Alistair ducking into the smithy with two of the silver bars in his pack and nodded, before turning back to Slim.

“And she even paid me for the useless herbs I sold her,” Daylen finished with a snort. “Two sovereigns. The way those people spend money.”

“Once Ser Nancine realizes she’s been robbed, I bet she’ll be furious. That’s delicious. And you hit Howe’s warehouse, as well. I’m proud of you, Warden. You have time for another?”

“I always have time for you, Slim,” Daylen replied with a warm smile, feeling the coin clinking in his pockets. “How much for this one?”

“Three sovereigns. It’s a pickpocket job, but a big one. Fresh out of burglaries, I’m afraid, although I’m working on something big in the Palace District. If it succeeds, it’ll make you a legend.”

Daylen dug out the coin. “Tell me about it.”

Slim nodded, gesturing around the corner. Daylen looked down the indicated alley and spotted two men in leathers and a man with a snooty expression in finer clothing. “We’re not stealing from a lass this time. We’re stealing from Bann Darby. That’s Master Tilver, the bann’s silversmith. He’s been on holiday for the past couple weeks. But he’s in town for the day. And all of his valuable, expensive goods are locked up tight – but he has the key. He’s got two guards with him. Not the cheap kind, either. If you can get by them, you should be good.”

Daylen stroked his beard as he looked at the situation. “Zevran, any ideas?”

“Perhaps pretending you know him from a party?” Zevran suggested. “Men such as that are always meeting – and forgetting that they’ve met – such nice people at parties.”

“Excellent. I’ll be right back. Stick to the shadows, but if one of those guards looks like he’s about to skewer me, intervene.” Zevran nodded, and Daylen entered the alleyway. “Tilver! How good to see you again!”

One of the guards stepped in his way. “Sorry, the alley’s occupied.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Daylen replied. “I know Tilver from Darby’s party. You remember, of course!”

Tilver looked panicked. “I…of course. Glad to see you again.”

Daylen stepped past the guard with a polite nod, moving closer to Darby as the guards resumed looking elsewhere in the alley. “Ser Kerrol. Oh, we had a grand time, didn’t we?”

“Oh, definitely. Bann Darby does throw the best parties. But, you see, this isn’t an opportune time…”

Clapping the man on the shoulder, Daylen used the gesture to mask his other movements as he pulled the man closer, putting an arm around his shoulders and discreetly frisking the man, finding the key in a pocket on Tilver’s shirt. “And did we drink! I scarcely recall it all.” Continuing over the man’s stammered protests, Daylen smiled fondly at the man. “But there is one part of the night I shall never forget. Those stolen moments in the cloakroom. The passion.” He shook his head. “But I won’t keep you, you said yourself this was a poor time. Perhaps I’ll see you at another of Darby’s parties, sweet thing.” Winking to the baffled silversmith as he left, Daylen exited the alley, Zevran appearing by his side as Slim leaned against the wall, wheezing with laughter at the display.

“Sweet thing?” Zevran echoed. “You sounded like Isabela.”

Daylen chuckled. “Who do you think I was impersonating back there?” He looked over at Slim, who was pushing himself upright, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You got anything else for us?”

Slim coughed, still chuckling. “Not yet, but come by later!”

The two were counting out their new coin over a brandy when the others caught up to them. Alistair was in the lead, looking pale. “Daylen,” he rasped, drawing the mage’s attention. “There’s been a problem.”

“Oh, Maker, now what,” Daylen groaned.

“There’s something going on at the Circle Tower.” At Daylen’s questioning look, Alistair continued. “We were looking for rumors about Loghain, trying to find out his location.” Alistair’s face twisted. “Even if he was in Denerim, we couldn’t get to him, by the way. And then we were talking with one of the sisters outside the Denerim Chantry, and overheard the Revered Mother discussing the Circle.”

“Alistair,” Daylen said. “Get to the point.”

“The Knight-Commander has requested permission and reinforcements to carry out the Right of Annulment.”

Daylen spat out half a mouthful of brandy, having inhaled the other half. “ _WHAT?_ ” he sputtered, coughing over the burning in his chest.

“I know,” Alistair replied. “We’ve been looking for you since.”

“We have to go to Kinloch Hold,” Daylen declared, downing the last of his drink. “Let’s get out of here. Talk to me as we go. Tell me everything you heard.”

—ROTG—

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Daylen said, running his hands through his hair. “Why would they request the Right of Annulment? The Circle was fine when I left!”

“That was a while ago,” Alistair replied. “Things can change.”

The mage sighed in response. “Well then, we’ll have to go check it out.”

“Is that wise?” Leliana asked.

“No, but neither was walking into a ruin crawling with werewolves,” Daylen replied. “And look how that turned out.”

Leliana seemed deep in thought. “We will need better armor and weapons.”

“We’ve already made some coin,” Daylen said. “Let’s split up. Meet back here when you’re done. Leliana, Alistair, weapons and armor for anyone that you think needs it. Zevran, Morrigan, supplies. Sten, Cupcake, come with me. We’re going to get a ride.”

—ROTG—

“How long will it take us to get to Kinloch Hold?” Alistair asked as their wagon made the highway. A half-hour’s negotiation with a trader had allowed them to hitch on to a merchant convoy headed to Highever as hired muscle.

“Less time than it’ll take the Templars,” Daylen replied, looking up from the book he had been reading. One of the magical texts from Keeper Lanaya had held some _very_ interesting spells he was looking forward to trying out. “That’s what matters.”

“Should we really have left Bodahn?” Leliana chimed in.

“No time to find him, but we left word,” Alistair said.

“He’ll catch up,” Daylen agreed. “What did you pick up in Denerim?”

“Some improved armor for me, some new leathers for Zevran and Leliana,” Alistair rattled off.

“How did you know my size?” Zevran asked, tugging at the buckles on his new armor.

Leliana sighed. “I could tell your size simply by looking at you, Zevran.”

“Impressed?” Zevran asked with a wink.

Leliana sniffed daintily. “Not particularly.”

“We also picked up some better weapons,” Alistair continued. “Mostly steel, however.”

Morrigan chimed in. “ _I_ found a staff of far higher quality at the Wonders of Thedas. ‘Twas a simple matter to persuade the vendor to discount it.” She passed the weapon over, and Daylen felt a tingle run through his fingers when he touched it. “It shall amplify your lightning magic.”

“Thank you, Morrigan,” Daylen said, tossing his other staff into the back of the wagon. “Zevran?”

The elf patted down his pockets. “Have a ring.”

Daylen’s eyes bugged out at he felt the ring. “Sweet Maker! There’s a lot of magic in this one.” He held the ring up, examining it closely. “Very, _very_ old, as well.” He eyed the elf. “What did this cost?”

“About five seconds’ work,” Zevran said smoothly.

—ROTG—

Daylen was pacing irritably as they made camp for the evening, glaring at the worn-out pack mules, the merchants, and generally anything else that caught his eye. The majority of the party had already turned in, although Morrigan was perusing the text he had been looking at earlier. Sten was standing watch, patrolling the edges of the camp.

“You are not quite as callow as I thought,” Sten said bluntly as he passed by on one of his loops. “That is…unexpected.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Daylen replied distractedly.

“You’re welcome.”

Daylen looked the giant in the eyes. “So will you tell me now why you were caged?”

A long pause. “I caged myself. A weak mind is a deadly foe, as you are no doubt aware.”

“Exactly what happened?”

“I told you before that I was sent here. I was not sent alone.”

“Qunari never work alone,” Daylen said. “That much, I know.”

“I came to your lands with seven of the Beresaad – my brothers – to seek answers about the Blight. We made our way across the Fereldan countryside without incident, seeing nothing of the threat we were sent to observe. Until the night we camped by Lake Calenhad. They came from everywhere – the earth beneath our feet, the air above us, our own shadows harbored the darkspawn. I saw the last of the creatures cut down, too late. I fell.”

“I’ve been there, Sten. At Ostagar, Alistair, two soldiers and myself fought our way to the top of the tower to send the signal. We did it, but arrived too late. Not that it would have mattered with Loghain abandoning our forces there. What happened to the other Qunari?”

“I am told no others survived. I don’t know how long I lay on the battlefield among the dead, nor do I know how the farmers found me. I only know that when I woke, I was no longer among my brothers.” A brief pause. “And my sword was gone from my hand.”

“What did you do?”

“I searched for it. And when that failed, I asked my rescuers what had become of it.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t know where it was.”

“They said they found me with nothing.” At Daylen’s questioning look, Sten continued. “I killed them. With my bare hands. I knew they didn’t have the blade. They had no reason to lie to me. I panicked. Unthinking, I struck them down.”

Daylen’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. You panicked over a lost blade?”

“That sword was made for _my hand alone_ ,” Sten growled. “I have carried it from the day I was set into the Beresaad. I was to die wielding it for my people. Even if I could cross Ferelden and Tevinter unarmed and alone to bring my report to the Arishok, I would be slain on sight by the antaam. They would know me as soulless, a deserter. No soldier would cast aside his blade while he drew breath.”

“Well then, you’ve got only one option,” Daylen said. “Couldn’t you search for the blade?”

Sten’s face twisted. “If I knew where to look, it would be in my hand now.”

“So that’s it, then? You aren’t going to do anything about it?”

“What would you have me do?” Sten snapped. “It could be anywhere by now!”

“You said you fought the darkspawn near Lake Calenhad. We’ll start searching there.” Sten blinked in surprise, and Daylen went on. “Don’t worry, Sten. We’ll find your sword.”

“Perhaps those words are empty, Warden, but…thank you, all the same,” Sten said slowly, before continuing on his patrol around the camp. Daylen ignored a merchant nearby, continuing to pace until the man spoke directly to him.

“Pardon me, you’re a Grey Warden, aren’t you?”

Daylen looked over, still distracted. “Eh? No, wrong person, mate.”

“I heard the giant refer to you as Warden,” the merchant replied. “Come off it, mate, I’ve no love for Loghain.”

“What do you want.”

“Where are my manners? The name is Levi, Levi Dryden.” He paused a moment. “Did Duncan ever mention me? Levi of the Coins? Levi the Trader?”

“I’m Daylen. And I’ve never heard of you.”

Levi looked hurt. “Really? He never told you of old Levi? We’ve known each other for years. But here I am, carrying on while you have a Blight to stop. Don’t want to waste your time.”

“Could have fooled me,” Daylen muttered under his breath.

“But you see, Duncan promised me that together we’d look into something important for the Wardens. And for me. But poor Duncan’s…well, no more. A tragedy it is, at that. But I know he would want his work carried on. His pledge fulfilled.”

“What promise did Duncan make to you?”

“My family…well, our past is a bit checkered, you see? Nobles look at us with disdain.”

“Wait, Dryden?” Daylen said. “As in Sophia Dryden, the last Warden-Commander of Ferelden before they were exiled?”

“My great-great-grandmother,” Levi confirmed. “She was the last, back when the Wardens were known as freeloaders. So King Arland banished the Wardens and he took House Dryden’s lands and titles.”

“I would say that’s drastic, but this is Arland we’re talking about,” Daylen said. “Man was an utter nut.”

“And then some,” Dryden replied. “Not much is known about that time. After King Arland died, there was a civil war, loads worse than this one. And our family was on the run, hunted by enemies – with nary a friend in the world. But Drydens are tough. We rebuilt, became merchants. And we never lost our pride.”

Daylen grunted, wondering if anyone in Ferelden was capable of getting to the point. “So what favor did you ask of Duncan?”

“I asked for the truth. My family reveres Sophia Dryden. We know she died at the old Grey Warden base, Soldier’s Peak. We want evidence to clear her name. It won’t restore our land or titles, but it’ll restore our honor.”

“Never even heard of Soldier’s Peak,” Daylen admitted. “Never seen it on a map.”

“Well, no one’s been to Soldier’s Peak since Arland’s days. At least none that’s come back. I spent years mapping the maze of tunnels to the peak. And I found the way a few years back. So I went to Duncan, I did, and I said that he could reclaim the old base and my family could have its honor.”

Daylen’s eyes lit up. “A base for the Wardens...why didn’t Duncan help you?”

“Well, the Blight started, didn’t it? Darkspawn started surfacing in southern Ferelden. And Duncan got plenty busy recruiting new Wardens and meeting with good King Cailan. Duncan said he would help after the battle of Ostagar. Said there might be useful things at the Peak. But he never had the chance.”

“He would have been looking to set up a more permanent base for the Wardens,” Daylen concluded. “They were attached to the main body of the army as a specialist company, if I remember correctly. Levi, your family’s faith in the Wardens will be rewarded. We’ll help you. Now, I don’t want to make the same promise Duncan did – I don’t know how the next few months will go. I’m raising an army against the Blight and that’s taking up most of my time. But if we can…we’ll help you.”

“A thousand blessings upon you, Warden. I’ll mark down the location on your map. When you arrive, we’ll pick our way through the tunnels together!”

—ROTG—

Morrigan surveyed the tower with a critical eye. “How very fitting that they would build a prison for mages in the middle of a lake and make it look like a giant phallus.”

Daylen snorted. “To be fair, the Circle moved in _after_ the tower was already built.”

Alistair nudged him. “Daylen, this isn’t a good idea. The Templars clearly don’t care that you’re a Warden, and Morrigan _is_ an apostate.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Daylen argued. “We’re doing this.” Alistair sighed, but nodded, moving away to confer with the others for a moment. Daylen looked at the other mage. “Morrigan, are _you_ going to be all right with this?”

“Why would I not be?”

“I’d rather you didn’t kill anyone in there.” Daylen shrugged. “Well, unless absolutely necessary. You never know with Templars.”

“I would only do so if attacked,” Morrigan replied archly.

Daylen sighed. “Have you never been hunted by the Chantry? Ever been part of the Circle?”

Morrigan chuckled. “You are very cute to ask so many questions.”

“And you’re cute when you’re evasive,” Daylen replied smoothly. “But you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Really? Perhaps we should be wrapped in ribbons and adorned with flowers, so cute are we two!” Daylen blinked at the sudden change in personality, before shaking off his surprise as she continued. “My mother has been hunted from time to time, yes. By Templar fools like Alistair, which should tell you how successful they generally were.”

“To be fair, Alistair was never a Templar,” Daylen said. “And Templars generally have to chase down individual half-trained mages, not abominations of legend.”

“Flemeth made a bit of a game of it, in fact. The Templars would come again and she would look at me and smile, and say that the fun was to begin once more.”

“Fun?” Daylen echoed. “You found it fun?”

“I found the game fun. I was too young to understand the truth behind what was happening. Flemeth would warn them once. ‘Twas a warning they inevitably failed to heed.”

Daylen groaned. “Yes, I can understand that, Templars generally have that attitude.”

“And then the true game began. Often Flemeth would use me as bait. A little girl to scream and run and lure the Templars deeper into the Wilds and to their doom.”

Daylen goggled at her. “Flemeth used you as _bait_?”

“Yes. ‘Twas a game and I a young girl. If I didn’t get to play, I would have been very upset. Thankfully, the Wilds is a vast place. Once they found us, Flemeth would simply move us elsewhere and we would be lost within the forest once again. I did not understand the danger we faced until I was much older. I had never heard of apostates or maleficarum.”

“They probably thought you were dangerous.” Daylen looked her up and down. “With good reason.”

Morrigan smirked at the praise. “Is it true, then, that given enough time the prisoner will learn to love the cell? The Chantry sees any mages not leashed to the Circle of Magi as ‘apostates,’ and apostates could become ‘maleficarum,’ evil mages that resort to blood magic and become demon-enslaved abominations. It may even be true. Still, those of us who prefer freedom see no reason to submit.”

Daylen snorted. “I agree completely.”

“An interesting answer, for a mage.”

“Is it? I had no choice when I was brought to the Circle, no choice when I was moved to Ferelden, and no choice when I was recruited into the Wardens. And while many do escape, or at least attempt to escape, we’re kept under constant watch and very carefully kept ignorant of the outside world. It’s easy to spot an escaped Circle mage – they’re the ones who are gawking at everything and still wearing their robes.”

“Back off!” the two mages heard from off to one side. “I was here first!”

“Speak, scavenger,” Sten snarled. “Where is the sword?”

“Sten, easy, easy,” Daylen broke in, stepping between the giant and the scavenger. “You haven’t seen a sword lying around here, have you? Something made for a very large man?”

“Why,” the scavenger asked coyly, scratching his nose. “You lookin’ to buy one?”

Daylen narrowed his eyes. “No, I’m not, but my very large, very angry friend here is.” Sten leaned forward slightly, maximizing his stone-faced glare and looming presence. Daylen looked up as the Qunari’s shadow blotted out the sun. “Either it’s a total eclipse, or Sten’s getting impatient…”

“Ah, is he?” the scavenger shrank back. “Well, that’s…see, I’d like to sell you one, but I don’t, eh, have…any, myself.”

Daylen leaned forward himself, glaring at the man. “ _Then who does_.”

“I knew the guy who was here before me. He sold me this spot. Said he’d found giants and all kinds of crazy valuables. He didn’t mention that he’d taken everything but the dirt and bones already. His name’s Faryn. Squirrely little bastard, if you ask me. Which you didn’t. But I said it anyway.”

“Well, we better pay this Faryn a visit,” Daylen declared. “Where did you say he was going?”

“I didn’t, actually,” the scavenger said.

Daylen sighed. “Sten, tear his arms off.”

“Orzammar!” the man squealed as Sten took a step forward. “He was going to Orzammar, he said! I imagine he’s gotten there by now!”

“Get out of here,” Daylen snapped. “Change your trousers and find a new line of work.” The man was gone in seconds. “Orzammar, then. We had to go there anyway.” Sten simply walked away, his normal scowl in place.

Zevran was talking to the others as Daylen rejoined the group. “The good thing about mages, I find, is that they die much like any other. You just need to worry about what happens before that.”

“Where’s Kester?” Daylen asked nobody in particular, peering down at the docks. “Oh, balls, is that Carroll?”

“Who now?” Alistair asked.

“Kester’s the ferryman,” Daylen explained as they descended the hill. He glanced over at the inn he and Duncan had eaten at before departing for Ostagar, what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Carroll’s a Templar. A bit dippy, at that. Let’s check the inn.”

Entering the inn, Daylen spotted the same man as before behind the bar, as well as the usual assortment of patrons, plus one extra – the burly, gray-haired boatman that had ferried Daylen to the tower over a decade previously. Zevran entered a few moments behind the others, a few scrolls in hand from an inconspicuous sack outside. The ferryman looked up from his ale, spotting the Warden, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled broadly. “Well, look at this! I remember taking you across when you left with that fellow, Duncan. And now you’re a Grey Warden…my pap used to tell me stories about them.”

“Hello, Kester,” Daylen said, sitting down opposite the man. “Why aren’t you manning the boat?”

Kester scowled. “Templars took the boat.” Brows furrowed, Daylen leaned forward, and the man sipped his beer. “Don’t got a clue why. They wouldn’t tell me. Greagoir just came down and said ‘don’t you worry, Kester, we got it all under control, we do.’ Didn’t say nothing else. And then he puts Carroll in charge of my boat, Lissie! Named for my grandmum, she was.”

“Any idea what’s going on up at the tower?”

Kester shook his head midway through a pull on his beer. “I told you. They didn’t tell me nothing. And if I know them mages, I’m better off keeping out of their business. If I had to guess, I’d guess it had to do with magic. But the tower’s always got something to do with magic.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need to get in,” Daylen said bluntly. “Any idea how I could do that?”

“You could try swimming, but I don’t recommend it. Nasty things in that lake. I reckon it’s all them potions they dump in there. Greagoir’s told me to stay here till it blows over. But I’m telling you, some storms don’t blow over easy.”

Daylen dropped a few coppers on the table. “Have a drink on me, Kester. Thanks for the information. I’ll see what I can do about getting Lissie back for you.”

“Cheers, Warden,” Kester replied, tipping back his beer.

The group exited the tavern and Daylen looked somberly at the tower. “I spent over a decade hoping to get out of that place. And here I am, trying to find a way back in.”

“I suppose we could just ask,” Alistair suggested.

“The direct approach,” Daylen replied. “Very sneaky. Let’s do it.”

“You!” The Templar cried as they approached. “You’re not looking to get across to the tower, are you? Because I have strict orders not to let anyone pass!”

“I’m a Grey Warden, and I seek the assistance of the mages,” Daylen said.

“Oh, you’re a Grey Warden, are you? Prove it.”

“What, do you want a request darkspawn murder?” Daylen asked. “I’ll oblige. Got any handy?”

“Sorry, fresh out,” Carroll replied. “Good thing, too, I suppose. Wouldn’t want darkspawn smeared across the landscape. I hear their blood is black. Is that true? You’d know if you were a Grey Warden.”

“Black as pitch, and it bubbles,” Daylen replied. “Awful stuff. If you ever see a darkspawn, try not to get the blood on you.”

“Oh, pleasant, eh? Good thing I don’t have to kill them then. Anyway, it was nice chatting with you. Now on your way. Right now. Go.”

“Maybe you’re not understanding me,” Daylen said clearly. “I need to get across to the tower. You are not necessary to that. But, since I’d rather work with you than simply toss you off this dock and watch you sink like a stone…can’t we just work something out?”

The Templar considered the issue. “You know, I am feeling a little peckish, though.”

“I…really?” Daylen asked, wondering just how much lyrium Carroll had been taking. “Well, I’m sure they have food at the tower. Always have in the past. Let’s go-”

“ _Pashaara_! Here!” Sten thrust a small paper-wrapped package into the Templar’s hands. “Munch on these if you like!”

“Oooh, cookies!” Carroll said gleefully, unwrapping the package.

“I am content to part with them if it saves us from this fool.”

Daylen gave Sten a sideways glance, utterly baffled at this turn of events. “Where’d you get those?”

“There was a child – a fat, slovenly thing – in the last village we passed. I relieved him of these confections. He didn’t need more.”

“You _stole cookies from a child_?”

“For his own good,” Sten replied firmly.

“Yummy!” Carroll declared, polishing off the last cookie. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, eh? We can go across now, if you really want.”

“Let’s go,” Daylen ordered.

—ROTG—

Daylen’s eyes widened as he entered the tower. Wounded Templars were lying in a makeshift ward on one side of the entry hall, and several bodies were respectfully covered in sheets in another area. Knight-Commander Greagoir was talking with another Templar, his helmet clutched in one hand.

“I want two men stationed within sight of the doors at all times,” he ordered. “Do not open the doors without my express consent. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ser,” the Templar responded, turning on his heel to carry out the orders.

“Now we wait, and pray,” Greagoir muttered as he turned to face Daylen.

“And I thought we’d never have to see each other again,” Daylen said. “What’s going on, Knight-Commander?”

“Well, look who’s back,” Greagoir snarled. “A proper Grey Warden now, are we? Glad you’re not dead.”

“You sound like you almost believe that,” Daylen said sweetly, remembering the Templar hit squad that had come after them.

“Perhaps,” Greagoir grunted. “Now, we’re dealing with a situation that doesn’t involve you, _Grey Warden_.”

“This absolutely involves me,” Daylen shot back. “I have a treaty that obligates the Circle to aid me against the Blight. Or, I could simply conscript every mage in the tower. Or, you could simply _tell me what’s going on_. Your call.”

“I shall speak plainly. The tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls. We were too complacent. First Jowan, now this.” He sneered at Daylen. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your role in Jowan’s escape.”

“One mage’s escape seems small compared to the situation here.”

“True enough,” Greagoir admitted.

Daylen’s eyes widened at the admission. “Sounds like the Templars haven’t been doing their jobs. Odd, considering how closely you watched when I was around.”

“My men did what they could, but it wasn’t enough. They took us by surprise. We were prepared for one or two abominations – not the horde that fell upon us. We faced a flood of abominations, and were forced back to this room. We sealed the doors, and we will wait until reinforcements arrive so the tower can be cleansed.”

“You sealed all the mages inside? And your own men?” Daylen gaped at the man. “What kind of commander are you?”

The Knight-Commander glared at him. “Watch your tongue, boy! I have a responsibility to my men to-”

“You had a responsibility _to those mages, you asshole_! You were supposed to be their protector, not just their captor! Of course you're supposed to put your men in danger, that's what they're trained and paid for! That's their job!”

“We were not trained to face a flood of abominations and demons like this!”

“I bet you those mages weren't trained for that either,” Daylen spat, his hands balled into fists. “Or don't they matter?”

“It is the innocent folk of Ferelden who matter. I would lay down my life, and the life of any mage, to protect them.”

“You callous _bastard_ ,” the Warden hissed. “The innocents you locked in there don’t matter, I suppose?” He inhaled to start laying into the man, before clamping his mouth shut for a moment. “Sod this. Unlock the doors, I'm going in there. I'll clear those abominations out and save whoever's left.”

“You would never survive against those numbers,” Greagoir said dismissively.

Daylen's glare could melt steel. “Someone has to do your job. Clearly it's not going to be you.”

The Knight-Commander paused, before nodding. “Very well. Once you enter, you will not be allowed out without proof that it is safe.”

“What proof?” Daylen asked.

Greagoir glared at the mage. “My men will bar the doors again behind you. I will only believe that it is over if the First Enchanter himself stands before me and tells me it is so. If Irving has fallen…” he paused, the lines of his face drawing taught. “If Irving has fallen, then the Circle is lost, and must be destroyed.”

“Fine. I'm going to go clean up your mess.”

“Daylen,” Alistair said quietly as Greagoir walked away. “Do you really think we can save this Circle?”

“Do you really think we can save Ferelden from the Blight?” Daylen asked, walking towards the quartermaster. “Not really, no. But I’m going to do it anyway.” He whistled, getting the quartermaster’s attention. “You. I need lyrium.”

“Um…How much?” The man asked, looking at the doors to the interior of the tower nervously.

“All of it,” Daylen growled. “Every vial of serum, every last pinch of dust, every  _grain_  you have on you. And any reagents you have for potion-making.” He held out a pouch of coin roughly. “Take what you need.” Hefting the box of lyrium under one arm, Daylen jerked his head at Morrigan, the two herbalists moving to a workbench and mixing vial after vial of the most potent lyrium potions they could make. As they worked, Daylen spoke. “Everyone’s coming in with me. Sten, you, Leliana, and Cupcake will be a single unit. Alistair, you, Morrigan, Zevran and I will be working together.” He looked to Morrigan. “You remember that spell I showed you from the Dalish text, Spell Might?”

“Of course,” she replied archly. “You think me so short in memory as to forget it?”

“Morrigan,” Daylen said softly. “I realize you don’t like being here, so close to these Templars, and where mages are kept prisoner. But I need your help here.” Her face softened, and she nodded. “Good. You remember the other one? Mana Clash?” She nodded again. “Good. Keeping Spell Might going will exhaust you quickly in a fight. It boosts your spellpower at the cost of sapping more mana for each spell. That’s why we’re bringing so many lyrium potions. But Mana Clash will kill an abomination  _dead_  with a single hit. Anything short of Pride demons will probably be killed outright. But please, don’t kill any mages unless you know they’re possessed. I’d rather keep the body-count down, we’ll need these mages.” The other mage nodded, and Daylen gave her a crooked smile, before raising his voice. “Alright, everyone, leave the gear behind. Weapons, armor, potions and bombs only. If you see some good loot, snag it, but don’t risk yourself for something shiny. Sten, have you ever faced an abomination before?”

“Our sarebaas do not become abominations,” the Qunari replied.

Daylen met his gaze. “That a no, then?”

“No.”

“Alistair, give him a few pointers. I know Templar training covers this. Zevran, you and Alistair will be on point. Leliana, you’ll be providing ranged defense for Sten and Cupcake. If we get separated somehow, Sten is in charge of that team.”

“Better him than Cupcake, I suppose,” Leliana said. The wardog gave an affronted ‘ _whuff_ ’ in reply, and Leliana reached down, scratching the mabari behind the ears.

“I’ve seen an abomination fight before,” Daylen said. “They’re fast, they’re strong, and they’re damned ugly. Do not underestimate them. Kill them and kill them fast.”

—ROTG—

_The Right of Annulment  
In the 83rd year of the Glory Age, one of the mages of the Nevarran Circle was found practicing forbidden magic. The Templars executed him swiftly, but this brewed discontent among the Nevarra Circle. The mages mounted several magical attacks against the Templars, vengeance for the executed mage, but the knight-commander was unable to track down which were responsible._

_Three months later, the mages summoned a demon and turned it loose against their Templar watchers. Demons, however, are not easily controlled. After killing the first wave of Templars who tried to contain it, the demon took possession of one of its summoners. The resulting abomination slaughtered Templars and mages both before escaping into the countryside._

_The grand cleric sent a legion of Templars to hunt the fugitive. They killed the abomination a year later, but by that time it had slain 70 people._

_Divine Galatea, responding to the catastrophe in Nevarra and hoping to prevent further incidents, granted all the grand clerics of the Chantry the power to purge a Circle entirely if they rule it irredeemable. This Right of Annulment has been performed 17 times in the last 700 years._

_—From Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1We've all been there. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2No, but shouting like that you might as well have. [ return to text ]


	9. Cleansing the Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party goes through the nightmare that is the Circle, and things hit home for Daylen.

_Templars  
Often portrayed as stoic and grim, the Order of Templars was created as the martial arm of the Chantry. Armed with the ability to dispel and resist magic in addition to their formidable combat talents, the Templars are uniquely qualified to act as both a foil for apostates—mages who refuse to submit to the authority of the Circle—and a first line of defense against the dark powers of blood mages and abominations._

_While mages often resent the Templars as symbols of the Chantry's control over magic, the people of Thedas see them as saviors and holy warriors, champions of all that is good, armed with piety enough to protect the world from the ravages of foul magic. In reality, the Chantry's militant arm looks first for skilled warriors with unshakable faith in the Maker, with a flawless moral center as a secondary concern. Templars must carry out their duty with an emotional distance, and the Order of Templars prefers soldiers with religious fervor and absolute loyalty over paragons of virtue who might question orders when it comes time to make difficult choices._

_The Templars' power derives from the substance lyrium, a mineral believed to be the raw element of creation. While mages use lyrium in their arcane spells and rituals, Templars ingest the primordial mineral to enhance their abilities to resist and dispel magic. Lyrium use is regulated by the Chantry, but some Templars suffer from lyrium addiction, the effects of which include paranoia, obsession, and dementia. Templars knowingly submit themselves to this “treatment” in the service of the Order and the Maker._

_It is this sense of ruthless piety that most frightens mages when they draw the Templars' attention: When the Templars are sent to eliminate a possible blood mage, there is no reasoning with them, and if the Templars are prepared, the mage's magic is all but useless. Driven by their faith, the Templars are one of the most feared and respected forces in Thedas._

_—From Patterns Within Form by Halden, First Enchanter of Starkhaven, 8:80 Blessed._

—ROTG—

The heavy door shut behind them, and Daylen heard the heavy crossbar slide into place. “Let’s get this done,” he said, trying to ignore the scent of blood and fear on the air, and the bloody handprints on the door.

“Which way do we go?” Alistair asked as Daylen knelt to check the body of a mage near the door.

“Room by room,” Daylen ordered. “Alistair, Zevran, Cupcake, keep watch on the hallway. Sten, Leliana, Morrigan, with me.”

As they entered what was left of the apprentices’ dormitory, Daylen nearly tripped over another corpse, trying not to throw up as he recognized one of his former classmates half-buried under broken bunks and desks. “Bennett. Bennett, you alive?” He spotted more bodies strewn around the room. “Cormac! Darren! Lewis! Maker, is there _anyone_ alive in here?”

“Daylen,” Leliana said quietly. “We have to keep moving.”

“Give me a blasted moment,” the mage snapped, his voice cracking. “This was my _home_.” He looked around at the bodies and the wreckage. “Tell me, Leliana, what possible good could come of this? What loving Maker could _possibly_ allow this to happen?”

“Daylen, the Maker works-”

The mage practically snarled at her. “If you say ‘in mysterious ways,’ so help me I will kick your ass.[1] There is no reason good enough for this.” Closing one of the corpses’ eyes, he stood, shoving past her as he headed for the door. “I’m going to _end_ whoever did this.”

“Daylen,” Alistair hissed as the mage approached, his ear pressed against the door. “I hear voices on the other side of this.” Daylen closed his eyes a moment, before mana began visibly flowing off of his body. The Warden nodded to Alistair, and the warrior opened the door, the party bursting through into the next room.

Alistair barreled through first, followed by Zevran and Daylen. Sten hooked off to the right, and Daylen’s eyes caught the flare of a burst of magic as a wave of frost ended a rage demon. The mage responsible for it turned away with a look of grim satisfaction on her face.

Daylen recognized her, and stopped short, Morrigan bumping into his back. “ _Wynne_? You’re alive?”

“You know her?” Alistair asked, before shaking his head. “Of course you do, she’s a mage as well.”

“She was at Ostagar,” Daylen replied, looking around the room and spotting several other mages, many of them children. “I had assumed she’d fallen in the battle.”

“Not quite, young man,” Wynne said, leaning on her staff. “Why did the Templars let you through? Are you here to warn us?”

Daylen shrugged, examining one of the children and healing a scrape on his jaw with a quick spell. “Partly. I was in Denerim and heard that they’d ordered the Right of Annulment. I had to investigate, and managed to talk Greagoir into letting me clean up his mess.” He paused, before continuing. “This was my home. I wanted to see what’s become of it. And help, if I could.”

“I see you still care about the Circle, and our tower.” Wynne gestured around the room. “As you can see, the Circle is in grave danger.”

“From the Templars, that much I know,” Daylen said sourly, nodding to Petra as he passed by. “Greagoir’s waiting for reinforcements, so they can Annul the Circle. He’s assumed everyone is either dead or an abomination. The worthless fucker wouldn’t even try to save anyone.”

Wynne scowled. “Please, mind your language in front of the children.”

Daylen nodded. “How many have you managed to save? Do you know if there are holdouts deeper inside?”

Wynne shook her head. “I gathered those I could and made for the doors, but these few are all I know to have survived.”

“A dozen mages, plus a handful of children,” Daylen breathed, feeling dizzy. “That’s all that’s left? What happened here?”

Wynne jerked her head, and the two stepped away from the other mages. “Let it suffice to say that we had something of a revolt on our hands, led by a mage named Uldred.”

Daylen’s head snapped around. “Uldred? He’s alive too?”

The enchanter nodded grimly. “When he returned from the battle at Ostagar, he tried to take over the Circle. As you can see, it didn’t work out as he had planned.” The enchanter’s jaw hardened. “I don’t know what became of Uldred, but I am certain this is his doing. I will not lose the Circle to one man’s pride and stupidity.”

Daylen’s fear and despair turned to rage. “If he’s still alive, I intend to fix that,” Daylen declared. “Of all the people to survive Ostagar…” the mage shook his head. “Never mind. Is that barrier your doing?”

“I erected the barrier, so nothing from inside could attack the children. You will not be able to enter the tower as long as the barrier holds, but I will dispel it if you join with me to save this Circle.”

“Fall in and we’ll save who we can,” Daylen said. “Will the children be safe here?”

“The other mages can watch them,” Wynne replied easily. “If we slay all the fiends we encounter on our way, none will get by to threaten the children. Once Greagoir sees that we have made the tower safe, I trust that he will tell his men to stand down. He is not unreasonable.”

“That won’t be good enough,” Daylen countered. “Greagoir _will_ Annul the Circle, regardless of what we say, unless Irving himself says so.”

“Then our path is laid out before us. We must save Irving.”

“You want us to assist this preachy schoolmistress?” Morrigan interjected. “To rescue these pathetic excuses for mages? They _allow_ themselves to be corralled like cattle, mindless. Now their masters have chosen death for them. I say let them have it.”

Daylen blinked in confusion. “You remember that I’m one of those ‘pathetic excuses for mages,’ right? Let’s not forget that you could easily have been one of them, if things were different.”

“I could be here, had my mother not shielded me from the Templars, so I am to show sympathy?”

“Look, Morrigan, I’m not asking you to approve,” Daylen snapped. “Feel free to wait here, if you object so strongly to helping children. I’m going to help them. Help out or stay put. But the rest of us are going on.”

The mage threw up her hands, striding away. “Do what you wish. I care not.”

“Petra, Kinnon,” Wynne said softly. “Look after the others. I will be back soon.”

“Wynne, are you sure you’re all right?” Petra asked as the other mage began setting wards, his staff flashing as defensive spells manifested. “You were badly hurt earlier. Maybe I should come along.”

The enchanter shook her head. “The others need your protection more. I will be all right. Stay here with them, keep them safe and calm.”

“Try not to throw out your back,” Daylen said, forcing a smile as Petra left to help Kinnon.

Wynne gave him a tight smile. “When that happens, I usually lay about a young upstart with my staff. That gets the blood flowing and works the kinks out of these old joints.”

Daylen looked over to see Alistair speaking quietly with Petra, before the team regrouped in front of the barrier. “Impressive work,” Daylen commented, feeling the magic. “You’ve kept this going for days?”

Wynne nodded. “I am somewhat amazed at myself for having kept it in place this long. It made me very weary at times, but I had to stay strong, to keep us safe. Be prepared for anything. I do not know what manner of beasts lurk beyond this barrier.”

“Do not fear, my good lady,” Zevran piped up. “Our Grey Warden is very good at fending off attackers. Speaking from experience here.”

“We’re ready,” Daylen said. “Drop the barrier.”

“All right. Be on your guard.” She extended an arm, her eyes closed, and after a few moments Daylen felt the magic of the barrier unraveling. The door behind the barrier swung open, and Daylen led the way through, staff up.

More bodies were in the next hallway, and Daylen rounded on Wynne. “These mages _better have been here_ before you put that barrier up.”

“They were,” Wynne replied archly. “There was nothing but demons and abominations in view on the other side of the barrier.”

Daylen knelt, examining one of the bodies. “Ignatius. Poor bastard.” He closed the corpse’s eyes. “Enjoyed our time together. Rest easy, my friend.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow at his comment as Daylen stood, an ugly look on his face. “Is there anyone in this tower you didn't sleep with?”

“Greagoir,” Daylen replied. “And Irving. Although not for lack of wanting. It's the beard, it just gets me. And something about his silver hair gets me all tingly inside.”[2]

“Is he messing with me again?” Leliana whispered to Alistair.

“I can't tell anymore,” Alistair muttered back.

“Wasn't easy, mind you,” Daylen went on. “Templars don't like it when mages start getting handsy with each other. They do their level best to stop us from reproducing. Keeps us from thinking we have the right to have a family.”

“Lots of rules against it?” Zevran asked. “That's just not right.”

“Well, rules are made to be broken,” Daylen said firmly. “And broken they were. Repeatedly.”

“I thought it was traditions that were made to be broken,” Alistair replied. “Or was it records?”

“He made that same argument about maidenheads a few days ago,” Leliana said.

“Lots of things were made to be broken,” Daylen said, lobbing a conjured lump of stone across the room and shattering a statue. “Like that statue. Maker, but I hated that thing. Just sodding ugly architecture.”

“Daylen,” Alistair said quietly.

“I'm fine,” Daylen cut him off. “One of the first things the smart mages learn at the Circle is how to manage your emotions. Rage, desire, pride, fear, all can attract demons. Leaving them uncontrolled is a good way to get possessed.”

Cupcake growled, and Daylen wrinkled his nose at the stench of blood and raw mana. “Careful. Something ahead.” Poking his head around the corner, he all but snarled and drew back. “Morrigan, with me. Abominations.”

The two mages crept into the room, spreading out and gesturing at which abominations they were aiming for. Two resounding crashes shook the walls as their spells manifested, and multiple bodies dropped to the floor like puppets with cut strings as the abominations died.

“My word,” Wynne said. “What magic is this?”

“A gift from the Dalish,” Daylen replied, downing a lyrium potion and feeling his gorge rising as he recognized the face on one of the abominations. “Maker, its Brenden. He was always so strong, how did he get possessed…”

More abominations and another Rage demon died as they progressed through the library and up the stairs, emerging in the senior mage quarters.

“Be wary,” Zevran said quietly. “I do not think we are alone here.”

“What are all these statues?” Sten asked. “Your mages have an unhealthy fascination for women with bowls.”

“Please, refrain from going into the stockroom,” the party heard as a man stepped out from amongst the wrecked shelves. “It is a mess, and I have not been able to get it into a state fit to be seen.”

Daylen stared at the man, dumbfounded. “Owain?”

The man replied in his usual toneless fashion. “Yes. It is I, Owain. You remember. I was trying to tidy up, but there was little I could do.”

Daylen was still staring at the man with his mouth open. “You’re cleaning. At a time like this.”

“The stockroom is my responsibility. I must keep it clean. I tried to leave, when things got quiet. That was when I encountered the barrier. Finding no other way out, I returned to work.”

“Nothing but demons and abominations, Wynne?” Daylen snapped. “How many others died because you cut off their escape?”

“Owain, you should have said something!” Wynne said. “I would have opened the door for you.”

“The stockroom is familiar. I prefer to be here.”

Daylen sighed, realizing the futility of arguing with a Tranquil. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, Owain.”

“I would prefer not to die. I would prefer it if the tower returned to the way it was. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all.”

“Niall?” Daylen echoed. “He’s alive too?”

“Who’s this Niall?” Alistair asked.

“A good man,” Daylen replied. “A few years ahead of me, almost always at the top of his class. Good man. Good mage. If he’s still alive, we could use his help. Owain, what’s Niall trying to do?”

“I do not know, but he came here with several others, and took the Litany of Adralla.”

Daylen cursed, and Wynne broke in, wide-eyed. “But that protects from mind domination. Is blood magic at work here?”

“I do not know,” Owain replied.

“Niall was in the meeting Uldred called when he tried to take over,” Wynne said. “He would know. Blood magic…I was afraid of this.”

Daylen nodded. “We should find Niall. The Litany will give us a fighting chance against any blood mages we encounter.” Turning to the Tranquil stockroom keeper, he continued. “Owain, the path behind us is clear, but I can’t say the same for this floor. Strongly suggest you head downstairs. Petra and Kinnon will look after you. We’re going after Uldred.”

The Tranquil nodded. “I wish you luck. Perhaps this will be over soon and things will return to the way they were. Goodbye.”

“Bit slow, is he?” Zevran asked as they walked away.

“Owain has been made Tranquil,” Daylen said. “They’re all like that.”

Leliana looked over. “Tranquil? What do you mean?”

Daylen sighed. “It’s how they handle troublesome mages. Don’t look at me like that, Wynne, you know it’s true. If they think a mage can’t resist possession, they brand your forehead with lyrium, which cuts off your connection to the Fade – and your magic with it. It also removes all your emotions. Fear, pride, desire…it just about destroys your personality. Of course, the Harrowing is specifically meant to test your resistance against possession. So it winds up used as a disciplinary tool. Most mages fear it more than death.”

“Wonderful,” Alistair said dryly. “The more I hear about this the less I like it.”

“Nothing like seeing an empty shell walking around that used to be someone you knew,” Daylen said bitterly. He sighted a trio of mages up ahead and his face brightened. “Thank the Maker, someone else is alive!” He spotted the blood flowing from their wrists and he all but snarled. “So that’s how it is.”

The blood mages raised their hands, but Daylen’s staff was already coming down, and the blood mages screamed as their mana was turned against them. Two died instantly, and one collapsed, blood bubbling from her mouth. “Before you die, I need information,” Daylen spat, grabbing the dying woman by the collar. “Who started this? Why did Uldred do this?”

“Don’t you remember what it was like living here? The Templars watching…always watching,” the woman gurgled.

Daylen shook her, the back of her head slamming against the stone floor. “Answer me! Why? What’s Uldred’s goal?”

“Uldred told us the Circle would support Loghain, and Loghain would help us be free of the Chantry…” She coughed and went still, blood leaking down her chin. Daylen unceremoniously dropped the corpse, patting down their pockets.

“You loot the dead?” Wynne asked.

“Makes it a lot easier to check their pockets,” Daylen replied gruffly. “If I didn’t, we’d never had made it up the Tower of Ishal. The money I made from theft and looting bought the elfroot extracts that kept us going.” Pocketing some coin, he stood, wiping the blood from his hands. “Let’s go. Stay alert, there’s not been nearly enough bodies.”

More abominations and a cluster of animated corpses fell as they went from room to room, scouring the tower clean of demonic influences and looting what they could. Daylen was gently closing the eyes on another dead mage when he heard Zevran hiss his name, gesturing at a wardrobe.

“Someone in there?” Daylen asked.

A moment’s pause. “N-no?”

“Well, I’m convinced,” Zevran said acidly.

“It’s safe,” Daylen called, trying to remember who’s voice he was hearing. “Well, mostly. You can come out.”

“Are the demons gone? Is it safe? I don’t want to die.”

“They’re gone. Well, they’re here, but they’re a little dead. So it’s safe.” The wardrobe door opened, and a mage stepped out, stretching out kinked muscles. Daylen recognized the man. He was one of those people you remembered – red hair, a thin nose and chin, and a generally weasel-like demeanor. “Godwin! You’re alive! Are you hurt?”

The mage shook his head. “I have a crick in my back and my bum’s gone numb, but no-oh holy Maker, these demons didn’t know what hit them, did they?” He looked down at the mess that Daylen was standing in, and the Warden shrugged, scraping the underside of his boot on one of the bodies. “Impressive. You turned them into a thin, slightly sticky, somewhat runny paste that appears to be seeping into the cracks between the stones as we speak.”

“You can stay here and hide in that closet some more, or you can make for the exit,” Daylen said, recognizing that the man was more in shock than truly impressed by Daylen’s handiwork. “The Templars have barred the door, but there’s other survivors down there.”

“I’m just going to stay here and see what happens,” Godwin replied. “For now, I imagine you have other things to do than talk to me.” He began clambering back inside the closet, poking his head out momentarily to speak. “May we meet again, in happier, less life-threatening times.” The door shut, and the Warden shrugged and gestured to his companions.

More blood mages were in the next room and abominations battering on the door to the underground storerooms. “Might be survivors down there, but this door’s barricaded,” Daylen said once the abominations were dead. “And if I remember correctly, the door’s warded against magic. Short of luring a dragon in here, the only way we’re going to get through is to get whoever’s on the other side to open it.”

Leliana was scanning the room. “Do we have time to do that?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Daylen sighed. “Let’s move on.”

The next room in the senior mage quarters had suffered a great deal of damage, with relatively fresh corpses scattered about and many statues knocked over. “Check the bodies, see if anyone can be saved,” Daylen ordered, eyeing one of the statues. “Wonder who went out of their way to mess up a statue of Andraste.” A glint of light caught his eye, and Daylen examined the base of the statue more closely. A phylactery had been hidden in a tiny recess in the stone, completely sealed away from the outside world.

“Another phylactery?” Alistair said, walking over with a looted amulet in his hand. “How’d it get there?”

“Beats me,” Daylen replied with a shrug. “But I’m guessing that Greagoir won’t be too keen on accepting the Circle as ‘safe’ if there’s a revenant still here.” A few moments later, the shadows in the glass boiled free, and Daylen readied another Mana Clash as the revenant manifested.

A resounding crash sounded, and the revenant turned, apparently confused by the noise but unaffected by the spell. “Oh, _balls_ ,” Daylen hissed as the revenant cast a spell, Leliana sailing through the air as the magic took effect. Fumbling, he cast again, a blast of frost stopping the revenant’s sword inches from Leliana’s head.

Alistair barreled forward, yanking the dazed rogue away from the revenant as Sten set to chopping away at the revenant’s front, Zevran’s daggers finding their way into the creature’s undefended back. The ice began to thaw as Daylen checked Leliana over, only for Wynne to refresh it, followed by Morrigan. The revenant collapsed to the ground, and Daylen healed the bruise on the rogue’s head and gagged down another lyrium potion before they continued.

“This is Irving’s office,” Wynne said quietly as they entered the room. “I half-expected to find him here, but…I suppose that’s too much to hope for.”

“I’m not that lucky,” Daylen sighed, scraping his tongue against his teeth. “Onward and upward, then. Alistair, take Wynne and Leliana, and scout ahead.”

“Such a number of books,” Sten said quietly as the others left. “How many are not decorations?”

“Most of them, actually,” Daylen replied as Zevran’s picks opened a chest. “Some of these Irving either wrote himself or was involved in the research. Spread out, see if there’s anything valuable.”

A few minutes of busy looting later, Daylen found a leatherbound book lying on Irving’s desk. Daylen sat down, opening the book. “It’s his journal.”

“The First Enchanter keeps a journal?”

“Most mages do,” Daylen said, fishing his own out of his satchel and holding it up for a moment. “Found the most recent entry, maybe it’ll shed some light on how things got this bad.” He cleared his throat and read aloud. “ _I followed another apprentice through supposed secret maneuvers today, and exposed her tendency towards blood magic. The environment of the tower is such that certain modes of thought are encouraged, both for good and ill. The students think we toy with them. The truth is far more intricate and directed. Deviant traits must be exposed early, or the whole of the Circle suffers._ ”

“How quaint,” Morrigan sneered. “They spy on their own to keep them in line.”

“You’d think so, but this disaster means that they aren’t good at their jobs,” Daylen replied. “And there’s more. _Uldred has been very helpful in identifying the markers to look for. His skills at misdirection are admirable. I daresay that the apprentices would be shocked at his ability to manipulate them. I must organize a retreat such that the other enchanters can benefit from his skills._ ” Daylen shut the journal. “Who manipulated who, I wonder. I thought the First Enchanter was smarter than that. Clearly, Uldred tossed a blood mage to the wolves every now and again to divert suspicion from the rest.” Dropping the book on the table, Daylen stood. “Let’s go.”

They found the others waiting for them at the top of the stairs to the third floor, and Daylen looked around what was left of the Great Hall. “This used to be a warm, relatively happy place.”

Zevran looked around. “I suspect this is where the mess started, judging from the bodies.”

“Headless women with shields,” Sten commented, inspecting one of the statues. “Much better than the bowls.”

Moving through the hall brought some of the less-dead corpses to their feet, only for the group to quickly finish them off. A horror not unlike the one they found in the ruins in the Brecelian Forest had nearly charged a massive burst of lightning when Daylen’s spell killed it. A Desire demon had enthralled a number of Templars, and thankfully Daylen managed to drop another blizzard on them before they called down Holy Smites. Morrigan and Wynne lobbed bursts of lightning and conjured stone into the fray, and Zevran followed up with a pair of shock grenades.

“That could have been bad,” Daylen said, chugging another lyrium potion. “If those Templars had gotten off their Smites, we’d have been in a bad way.” He gestured at the ice-encrusted bodies. “Let’s check the bodies.”

Room by room, the party fought through the tower, clearing out the third floor with only minor injuries.

“We’re making good progress,” Wynne said, stretching out a bruised shoulder.

Daylen nodded, clearing his throat and spitting. It came out blue. “We’re having a much easier time than the Templars would, though.”

“How much of the tower is left?” Leliana asked.

“Two floors at least,” Daylen said. “Not counting the storage caves and the basement. Above us are the Templar quarters and the Harrowing chamber itself. The stairs through that door,” he pointed down the hall, “will take us up there. With my luck, Uldred and Irving will be up at the top of the tower, in the Harrowing chamber.”

A particularly tough abomination and a handful of reanimated corpses were standing between them and the stairs, and Daylen fought the urge to retch as he saw multiple fleshy, pulsating sacks of what looked like melted skin lying around. “What is this stuff?” Alistair asked.

“I don’t want to know,” Daylen said quietly, trying not to look too closely at the stuff for fear he would recognize someone he knew in it. “Some sort of corruption. Demon-based, from the smell. Let’s just get out of here.”

The next floor held more of the same – enthralled Templars, the odd desire demon, and a blood mage that fell before the party’s superior numbers without much trouble.

“Past this next hall is the Harrowing chamber,” Daylen said softly, listening at the door. The Warden looked around at the rest of his party. “Uldred will probably be a sort of abomination by now, if he wasn’t already. There will likely be several lesser abominations like the ones we encountered before as well. Now, Uldred was at Ostagar, and we have since learned that he was colluding with Loghain. He was a tosser to start with, and his mood certainly hadn't improved at Ostagar, so he'll probably start ranting at us. Just be ready to kill him and all the abominations in that room. Everyone ready?” He got a group of nods, and the group pushed through to the next chamber.

—ROTG—

The fire blazed to life, uncontrolled and off target.

“No!” Irving scolded. “Daylen, you have power, you have skill, but you must learn discipline and control!”

“I'm trying, old man!” Daylen yelled. A Senior Enchanter nearby glanced over from the apprentice she was tutoring with a disapproving look.

Irving stood straighter, authority and power radiating off of him. “Mind yourself, boy. I am aware you're trying. But you must learn to manage your emotions. Control them, do not let them control you. Use them as fuel, not a guiding force. Channel it into your magic. You are the master of your spells, not your emotions. Now, light the fire.”

Daylen felt his frustration and anger pulsing inside him and inhaled deeply, trying to focus it. He felt the emotions subside as he assumed control, and wove the magic, unleashing the spell.

A fire blazed to life in front of him, perfectly controlled and perfectly targeted.

“Well done, child,” Irving said proudly. “Well done indeed.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter,” Daylen replied. “I'll get better, sir. I'll need the skill to fight the darkspawn.” Daylen tilted his head. “Wait, what? I'm not going to be fighting...darkspawn…” He shook his head, feeling flashes of memory coming back. “Wait…”

“Nonsense, child,” Irving patted his beard. “I'll see you as a Senior Enchanter one day. Maybe even a First Enchanter.”

“I hope so, sir,” Daylen said. “I wonder where Alistair and the others are, though.” His face clouded, and he felt an itch beginning behind his forehead.

“Who?” Irving asked. “Never mind. You must maintain your focus, Daylen.”

“Wait,” Daylen said hesitantly, more memories coming back. _Golden eyes_. “I...what? Where's Morrigan? And Alistair? And Leliana and the others?”

“You must maintain your focus!” Irving snapped. “Again!”

 _Golden eyes_. Daylen took a step back. “What is this?” Irving remained silent, and Daylen's eyes narrowed. “You aren't the First Enchanter. I know you're not him. Release me from this illusion, demon!”

“You ungrateful child!” It spat. “You couldn't just sit down and accept the dream, could you?” 'Irving' spun the staff it carried, but Daylen was faster on the draw, jabbing his own staff forward on a hunch and sinking it into the demon's gut. The demon reacted as expected to the blow, doubling over, before it looked up with a feral grin, still wearing Irving's face. Daylen tilted his head, before letting lightning flow from the staff directly into the demon's body. The demon screeched, and Daylen spun his staff, bringing the head back and the butt of the weapon down on the demon's skull, knocking it to the ground.

Daylen ducked a gout of frost from the nearby Senior Enchanter, bringing up a shield of arcane energy before planting his boot on the neck of the demon impersonating Irving and incinerating its head with a blast of highly concentrated flame. The body thrashed for a few moments before going still, and Daylen turned, bringing his staff to bear on the other two demons. A sustained burst of frost locked the two in place, and Daylen dropped a fireball on the two demons, ending the fight as quickly as it had begun.

Leaning on his staff, Daylen closed his eyes, feeling ambient flows of magic. “Blast it, I’m in the Fade. What happened?” Wracking his brains, Daylen caught flashes of an abomination’s face in his memories and an overwhelming sense of fatigue, but little else.

Sitting down on a nearby pedestal, Daylen groaned. “I really hope there’s not some abomination chewing on my leg right now.” He looked up as the Fade began to blur around him. “Shite.” Standing up, he saw he had been sitting on a runic pedestal. “Shite!”

The world snapped back into focus, showing a more familiar view of the Fade. Daylen sat up and sighed, looking around the Fade. “Wonderful.”

“Oh, hello there,” a voice said from behind him. Daylen spun, reaching for his staff. A wisp bounced backward a few steps, before resolving into a humanoid if featureless form. “I'm sorry!”

“Who are you?” Daylen challenged, feeling his mana surging in response to the newcomer. “What do you want?”

“Can you see me?” The wisp asked. “I'm a spirit. I was drawn here by your pain.”

“Not hunger,” Daylen mused. “Not rage, or sloth. What are you?”

“I am Compassion,” the spirit replied warmly. “You are...odd. It is strange to see glimpses of your world, and frightening. There is much pain there.”

“There is,” Daylen agreed.

“And here,” the spirit said quietly. “You just wanted to help. The darkness is pushed back, the flesh of his arm closes, and I get tied to a post. 'You're not my son. You're a monster.’”

Daylen took a step back, his face going pale. “ _How do you know that_.”

“I...hear things,” The spirit said. “I feel them as people feel them. I want to help. Heal the helpless. Give hope where there is hurt. And I have seen you before.”

“You…” Daylen pointed at the spirit. “You were there, the first time.”

The spirit nodded. “I came to you, because of how much of me is in you. You want to heal, to help. ‘I have to be better, have to be smarter, have to be stronger, or I will be a monster.’”

Daylen looked away from the spirit. “ _Stop_. Get out of my head.”

“But I wish only to help,” Compassion said. “You truly have compassion. You are a healer. A fighter, but no less a healer.”

“What help can you offer me?” Daylen asked.

“Knowledge,” the spirit answered. “Help better, help more.” Daylen staggered as the spirit held out a hand, momentarily wondering whether he was about to be possessed as the spirit's mind linked with his. It felt like a bucket of ice had been poured directly into his brain, but he saw more clearly than he had believed possible. “Don't waste it.” The spirit blinked back into wisp form and sped away, and Daylen coughed, shaking his head as he realized the spirit had been telling the truth.

As Daylen wandered the paths of the section of the Fade he found himself trapped in, he spoke aloud, his head pounding as it tried to sort through the new information he had received. “There’s a load of healing knowledge…anatomy, the way the body works, human, elven, dwarven, even Qunari…but what use is this if I can’t muster the power to heal with it without knocking myself out?” Shaking his head, Daylen turned a corner and stumbled over an uneven section of the path, leaning against what looked like a door that was standing alone on a forest path. Feeling a swirl of magic, Daylen looked up in panic, moments before the spirit door spat him out into a separate section of the Fade.

Daylen landed with all the grace and dignity of a sack of potatoes tossed from a fourth-story window. Spitting out a glob of blood from a bitten tongue, the Warden sat up, spotting a mage slumped against a tree.

“Got trapped too, I see,” the mage said, not looking up. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Daylen said, drawing his staff. “I didn’t fall for this during my Harrowing and I’m not falling for this now!”

“I beg your pardon?” the mage looked up, and Daylen faltered. “Wait, I know you.”

“Niall?” Daylen crouched. “Maker, it’s good to see you.”

“Daylen? Daylen Amell? The apprentice who left with that Grey Warden?”

Daylen frowned. “I was Harrowed before I was recruited, you know. And I’m a Warden myself, now.”

“Lucky you,” Niall said bitterly. “Shame you’ll never make it out of here. There is no way out. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Daylen sighed. “Pardon me if I don’t buy that. This place is prison, sure. But prisons have locks. Locks can be opened. Now, if you don’t mind, I could use some information.”

—ROTG—

The rack tightened, and Zevran’s joints creaked. “I think I saw him flinch that time,” one of the Crow torturers said.

“Maybe,” the other allowed. “We’ll make you scream yet, apprentice.”

“We’re not going to go easy on you, trust me,” the first agreed.

Zevran groaned. “No, I wouldn’t want you to hold back. I’d be disappointed if you did.”

“This one has spirit,” the first torturer said with a twisted smile. “It’s a shame we have to break him.”

“I’ll not have you threaten a friend of mine,” a cold voice said from the corner. Daylen burst forward, the first torturer’s skull caving in under a crushing blow from the head of his staff. The other managed to score a deep gash along Daylen’s arm before the Warden jammed the head of his staff into the demon’s gut, channeling lightning directly into its body. The corpses vanished, and Daylen gently helped Zevran to his feet.

“What…” Zevran winced as his body protested. “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“This is a dream,” Daylen said, healing the gash on his arm with barely a thought, before glancing at his arm in surprise. “An illusion, made by demons to trap you.”

“But the Crows…this is my test. I need to show them I can tolerate pain.”

“Except you’re already a Crow. That’s how we met, Zevran. You tried to assassinate me, and I recruited you.” The elf’s eyes brightened, and Daylen nodded. “You remember?”

“I remember charming you into taking me along, yes,” Zevran said. The landscape wavered around them. “What’s happening? Where are you going?”

—ROTG—

Morrigan groaned as the demon impersonating Flemeth continued her incessant chatter. “Away! Away with you! I shall have no more of your pestering!”

“I am your mother,” the demon said. “Do you not love me?”

The witch rolled her eyes. “You are as much my mother as my little finger, right here, is the queen of Ferelden! I know you, Fade spirit. You cannot fool me.”

The demon’s tone darkened. “Are you more clever than your own dear mother? Surely such pride must be punished!” Morrigan stumbled back as the demon’s slap connected. “There! That is for not showing respect!”

“That is more like it,” Morrigan spat as Daylen stumbled out of what appeared to be a solid wall. “But it is too little, too late, spirit.”

Daylen nodded at her. “Family squabble?”

“Ah, ‘tis you at last! Come and rid me of this vexatious spirit! I weary of being prodded!”

“Not a good impression of your mother, then?” Daylen asked.

“She doesn’t even acknowledge her own mother!” The demon said. “My heart, it breaks!”

That was when Morrigan’s patience completely ran out. “Even the true Flemeth was never as annoying as this!” Two bursts of magic later, the fake Flemeth vanished.

“Look, I think we need to talk,” Daylen said. “While we’re here, beyond any prying ears.”

“Speak, then.”

“I was trapped in a nightmare too,” Daylen said. “And I think it was thoughts of you that pulled me out. There were five demons that guarded the path to the Sloth demon that got us. I’ve gotten three of them so far, and your shapeshifting lessons helped a great deal with that, but I’ll explain later. If we get…oh, blast it, _not again!_ ” The scenery dissolved again as the nightmare began to break down.

—ROTG—

“Shanedan,” Sten said as Daylen shot out of a solid hill, landing on his face. The Qunari looked back to his two companions, or rather the demons he knew to be impersonating them. The two fake Qunari were sitting around their campfire, a handful of traps in disguised locations around their campsite.

“Ow,” Daylen croaked, spitting out a mouthful of dirt, blood, and a loose tooth. “Maker, that hurts.”

“Who are you talking to?” one of the other Qunari asked.

“Don’t bother the Sten,” the other said. “Isn’t it your turn to cook?”

“Cook what, Ashaad?” The first sighed. “There’s no food in this miserable, frozen country.”

“Pashaara!” Sten snapped. “We have a guest. Make room at the fire.”

“We don’t have time for this, Sten,” Daylen said, healing the wound in his mouth. “What’s going on here, anyway?”

“Dinner, obviously,” Sten replied. “Although I don’t recommend you eat anything the Karashok cooks.”

“Unless you enjoy spending time in the latrine,” the Ashaad replied.

“Then why don’t _you_ cook, kadan?” the Karashok shot back.

“Not my turn,” the other Qunari said flatly.

“Perhaps my memory is failing,” Sten growled. “I would swear I’ve already told you both to shut up.”

“My apologies,” the Karashok said sincerely.

“You realize none of this is real, I hope,” Daylen said gently.

“This is a dream,” Sten sighed. “I’m not a fool, Warden. I remember seeing the Karashok there have his head torn off.”

The Ashaad shrugged. “Well, at least it’s not a great loss.”

“You are so entertaining, Kadan, you should perform in the square with the other trained monkeys. We could throw you peanuts.”

“It’s a dream,” Sten said softly. “But it’s a good dream.”

“Well, this isn’t like you,” Daylen replied. “You’re supposed to be practical.”

“Yes. And what has that accomplished?” Sten’s face twisted. “Death, dishonor, exile. There is nothing left to fight for.”

“Nothing left to fight for?” Daylen asked. “Are you mad, Sten? You came here to learn what the Blight is. This fight against it isn’t a struggle of religion or politics, it's a race against evil. If we fail, the armies of darkness will march all over the face of Thedas.[3] Do you understand me? I need your help to do this! And I refuse to fail, and be stuck in this pesthole while the darkspawn destroy everything!” Sten looked away, and Daylen sneered at him. “So much for the Qunari discipline. You gave your word to aid me. And now you turn away? For _this_?”

Sten glared at him. “I did give you my word, at that.”

“You can’t abandon your post,” the Karashok said, standing up.

“Stand aside,” Sten ordered. “I would hate to see you all die again.”

“No!” The Karashok said, as the Ashaad drew his sword. “We won’t let you leave us again!” The Qunari staggered as a lump of conjured stone ricocheted off his breastplate, and Daylen winced, following up with a sustained burst of flame, trying to cook the Qunari in his armor. Sten was busily parrying the Ashaad’s blows as the Karashok bulled forward, knocking Daylen flat on his back. The qunari’s sword was coming down towards Daylen’s skull when Sten’s sword sprouted from the middle of his chest, and the Qunari collapsed as Daylen rolled out of the way, a blast of lightning ending the wounded Ashaad.

“And yet, this gives me no peace,” Sten said, looking at the corpses. “I wish to leave this place.”

“Wait for it,” Daylen replied, nodding as the scenery began to bleed together.

Sten gave an audible cry of frustration. “What is this? More trickery?”

—ROTG—

“Hey, it’s great to see you again!” Alistair said as a battered and bloody Daylen hit the dirt in front of him.

“I have got to get the hang of this at some point,” Daylen muttered, brushing himself off as he stood.

Alistair beamed at him. “I was just thinking about you! Isn’t that a marvelous coincidence?”

“Yes, just wonderful,” Daylen coughed. “Who’s the woman?”

“That’s my sister, Goldanna,” Alistair replied brightly. “These are her children, and there’s more about somewhere. We’re one big happy family, at long last!”

“You have a sister?” Daylen asked, before shaking his head. “No matter. Alistair, we need to go. This is an illusion.”

“Nonsense! This is a wonderful life,” Alistair replied. “I don’t…I don’t want to spend my life fighting, only to end up dead in a pit along with rotting darkspawn corpses.”

Daylen blinked at him. “So you don’t want to make a difference? Didn’t you tell me that was what you wanted? Didn’t you tell me that was why Duncan recruited you?” Alistair blanched, and Daylen pressed forward. “You think Duncan brought you into the Wardens so you could sit here in a demon’s illusion?”

“I…what?” Alistair closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to focus. “But…what?”

“Think about how we got here,” Daylen instructed. “We were fighting our way through the Circle. How could we have gotten from there to here and not remember it?”

Alistair’s eyes snapped open. “Demon’s got my mind, doesn’t it.”

“Good man,” Daylen said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

“No!” The demon playing Goldanna howled. “He is ours, and I’d rather see him dead than free!”

“Well, that’s siblings for you,” Daylen said, before Alistair rounded on her and knocked the demon flat with a single blow. Drawing his sword, Alistair ended the demon before it could rise, and Daylen hosed down the minor demons that surged towards them with a long blast of frost, before arcing lightning into the mess to finish them off.

“How did I not see this earlier?” Alistair murmured.

“Easy,” Daylen offered. “You saw what you wanted to see. The Fade can be tricky like that.”

“Try not to tell everyone how easily fooled I was,” Alistair said with a faint smile.

“You? I was stuck in there for longer.”

“Well, then, I…” their surroundings began to fade, and Alistair spun around. “What’s happening?”

“Just go with it,” Daylen said. “Hope this works…”

—ROTG—

Leliana ran through the next verse of the Chant of Light, the Revered Mother at her side. She was halfway through when a man in dirty robes went sailing over a pew and tumbled to a halt in front of her, wheezing in pain. “Who are you?” she asked, as the man coughed, clutching his ribs.

The Revered Mother intervened, stepping between Leliana and the newcomer. “I beg you, do not disturb the girl’s meditations.”

“Sorry, have to,” the man said, clambering to his feet. “Not only are you a demon, but if I hear that wretched verse of the Chant one more time I’m likely to start setting things on fire on principle.”

“Revered Mother, I do not know this person,” Leliana said softly.

“Well, that stings a little,” Daylen said. “Let me avoid the counterargument and just,” he grabbed the Revered Mother by the throat, channeling lightning into the demon’s head and ending it with minimal fuss. “Skip ahead a bit-hey, now!” he sidestepped a strike from Leliana’s dagger. “That was uncalled for!”

Leliana swung again, fury in her eyes. “Murderer!”

Daylen caught another strike, bracing his arm against hers to keep her from jamming the dagger into his chest. “Leliana, this isn’t real! You left the cloister, remember? Your vision!”

The rogue paused momentarily. “My…my vision? How do you know about that?” She kicked him in the shins, and Daylen staggered back, the dagger sweeping in low towards his gut.

Daylen managed to catch her wrists just as the tip of the dagger ripped through the front of his robes, a thin trickle of blood coming from his belly. “A rose blooming in darkness! It made you decide to join my fight against the Blight! You thought it was a sign from the Maker!” Daylen felt his strength wavering and continued talking desperately. “You believed that it was a sign that the Maker wanted you to help me, and I don’t have your faith in the Maker, but I believe in you, Leliana! I believe in you!”

The pressure on the dagger slackened, and Leliana’s eyes widened as she looked into the Warden’s. “Daylen?”

“Welcome back,” Daylen said, looking down at the blood staining his robes. “And just in time, at that!”

The rogue looked stricken. “I am so sorry!” Leliana gushed apologetically. “I didn’t know!”

“You couldn’t,” Daylen replied soothingly. “We were put under a spell by a Sloth demon. I’ve unlocked most of the way to him – which was an adventure at that – but I had to come find you all.”

“Are the others all right?”

“So far? Yes. I’ve seen everyone else except Wynne. Some were easier than others to find, Cupcake was simply wandering. I think…” he growled in frustration as the world started to swirl together. “Never mind, I’ll tell you in a bit.”

—ROTG—

Daylen landed in a crouch this time, crowing victoriously at his successful entrance of another nightmare.

Until he noticed the corpses.

Lots of them.

Mostly children.

And standing amongst them, Wynne.

“Maker forgive me. I failed them all,” Wynne said bitterly. “They died and I did not stop it.”

“No, they very well did not,” Daylen snapped. “Wynne, I expected better. You’re the only other Harrowed mage of our group, and _you_ fall for this?”

“How can you say that, when you are faced with this?”

“Faced with a demon’s cheap illusions?” Daylen asked. “I would say I’m sick and tired of being stuck here. Maker, you saw these mages alive and well mere hours ago! We were clearing the tower! Aren’t you a mage? Can’t you tell that this is the Fade?”

“The Fade?” Wynne looked startled. “I had not considered that. I always have had an affinity for the Fade. I assumed I would be able to tell…”

“Yes, well, we’re all slipping,” Daylen muttered, thinking of his own difficulty in realizing the truth. “Come on, let’s get out of-” he stared as the corpses began to rise, clearly not dead.

“Don’t leave us, Wynne,” one of the apprentices said. “We don’t want to be alone!”

“All right, that’s over the line,” Daylen spat. “Trying to manipulate her with the bodies of her students? Low, even for a demon!” The demon’s eyes turned black as it turned to him, and whatever it was going to say was cut off as Wynne broke its jaw with a conjured rock, before freezing it to death. Daylen hit another with a bolt of arcane energy that sizzled on impact, and Wynne cracked it across the skull with her staff, dropping it to the floor as Daylen incinerated the last one with a torrent of lightning.

“Lay about young upstarts with your staff, eh?” Daylen said with a laugh. “I thought you were joking about that!”

Wynne breathed deeply as the last of the bodies vanished. “Is it over?” Daylen nodded in response. “Thank the Maker for you.”

“Yes, yes. If I can bring you with me, we can work this out,” Daylen said. “There were five demons guarding the path to the Sloth demon that trapped us. Four are dead now, but the fifth is in a maze the likes of which I’ve never seen. Spirit doors, mouseholes…it doubles back so many times I couldn’t make sense of any of it. I need…” The world began to blur, and Daylen sighed. “See you in a bit, I hope.”

—ROTG—

Daylen twisted as he sailed through the Fade, managing to land on his feet with barely a stumble. “I’ve found them all,” he said, crouching next to the sitting mage. “You’re sure your body will have been too drained to come back with us?”

Niall nodded. “I have been here for what feels like an eternity. Time seems to pass differently in the Fade, but I can already feel myself weakening even here. It is too late for me.” Niall looked up at Daylen, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Take the Litany of Adralla from my body. It will protect you from the worst of the blood magic.”

Daylen sighed. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t rescue us earlier.”

“I don’t fear what may come,” Niall said quietly. “They say we return to the Maker in death, and that isn’t such a terrible thing. My only regret is that I could not save the Circle. But you…you can. I was never meant to save the Circle, or survive its troubles. I’m dying, it’s as simple as that. But I can rest easy knowing you will save the Circle.”

“I couldn’t have done this much without assistance,” Daylen replied. “Your assistance. I’ll make sure your name is known, Niall.”

“I’m not a hero,” the dying mage said softly. “Perhaps trying to be one was foolish.”

“A hero is just some driven person who was in the right place at the right time,” Daylen replied. “You did what you felt you had to. And ordinary people can do great things when they have to. You did a lot to save the Circle, Niall.”

The mage smiled faintly. “Dark times, greater acts of heroism, eh? You may be right. Before I was taken to the Circle, my mother said I was meant for greatness, that I would be more than my ancestors could have ever dreamed. I hope I haven’t disappointed her.”

“You didn’t, Niall,” Daylen said. “Do you…do you want me to take a letter to her? A last message?”

The mage shook his head. “It is time for both of us to be on our way. Remember the Litany of Adralla. The Circle is all that matters now.” Daylen nodded, standing and starting to work the runic pedestal again. “Thank you and goodbye, my friend,” Niall said.

“Rest easy, Niall. I’ll finish this.”

—ROTG—

Daylen plunged back into the realm of the last remaining demon that stood between him and Sloth. “Maybe now I can get through this blasted place without getting completely turned around.” Eighteen wrong turns and a full minute of bellowed profanity later, Daylen threw up his hands and perched on a desk. “Alright, I think I’m going about this wrong.” Picking a random door, Daylen felt himself flowing through the Fade.

A few minutes of jogging through random doors later, Daylen spotted the final demon that stood in the way of freedom – a Desire demon. Then he cursed as she shapeshifted into a mouse, scurrying into a hole and out of sight. Jamming the tip of his staff into the hole, Daylen funneled a blast of flames into the hole, hearing a pained yelp before shifting into the mouse form he had picked up from another soul trapped in the Fade.

“You won’t find me so easy-” the Desire demon broke off as Daylen’s patience wore thin and he dropped a Mana Clash on her, ending her in a single blow.

“Let’s _end_ this,” Daylen spat, spotting another runic pedestal.

—ROTG—

The Sloth demon’s realm was surprisingly unremarkable. The other demons had built large and complex mazes, filled with lost souls and lesser demons, but Sloth resided in a single small island in the Fade, with nothing but a runic pedestal of note on the island and a large fog bank surrounding the place.

Then he spotted the demon. “That’s never going to heal if you don’t stop picking at it,” Daylen said as he looked at Sloth.

Daylen thought the Sloth demon was ugly, but then it started _talking_. “What do we have here? A rebellious minion? An escaped slave?” The creature chuckled, an impressive feat considering it sounded like its jaw was riveted together. “My, my, but you do have some gall. But playtime is over. You all have to go back now.”

Daylen heard hissing from behind him, and turned to see the rest of his companions stepping out of a bank of mist. “You made a dangerous enemy, demon, by toying with my mind,” Morrigan declared, pointing at Sloth.

“I am here,” Sten said, prowling angrily with his greatsword drawn. “And it is time to finish this. _I have had enough of cages._ ”

“Everyone here, then?” Daylen asked as Leliana and Alistair gave him a nod. “Good. Let’s kill this son of a bitch.”

“If you go back quietly, I'll do better this time. I'll make you much happier.”

“Not happening,” Daylen said.

“I made you happy and safe. I gave you peace. I did my best for you, and you say you want to  _leave_? Can't you think about someone other than yourself? I'm hurt, so very, very hurt.”

“Not yet, you’re not!” Alistair growled.

“You wish to battle  _me?_  So  _be_  it. You will learn to bow to your betters, mortal.” A flash of light, and an ogre roared at them before it charged, only for Morrigan, Daylen, and Wynne to hit it with blasts of frost. Zevran, Sten, and Alistair set away to hacking at its limbs as Leliana drilled arrow after arrow into its body, and after a few minutes, the beast collapsed, only to burst into a new form – a rage demon. “Hatred! Burning! It feeds me!” More ice, and the amorphous form exploded again, an abomination uncurling from the remains. Morrigan snorted disdainfully, hitting it with a Mana Clash moments before Daylen did.

“I am your greatest nightmare!” The abomination declared.

“You aren’t even in the top three!” Daylen shouted back, slamming a lump of conjured stone into the abomination’s gut, folding it in half. Alistair’s sword came in from the side, carving deep into the creature’s side as Leliana’s arrows caught it in the forehead. The abomination smacked Alistair aside, only for Sten’s sword to lop off its hand at the wrist. Demonic ichor spilled to the ground, and the beast roared in pain, loosing another shockwave that knocked the party off their feet and shifting form to that of a shade.

“I command the shadows of your darkest dreams!” Sloth declared, flinching as Sten clocked it in the skull with the pommel of his sword, before slamming the blade down into its body. Morrigan landed another Mana Clash, and the creature shrieked in pain, before unleashing a blast of mental energy that stunned the warriors. Daylen stumbled back, caught in the blast, and fell to the ground, his vision blurring.

An incendiary flask burst against the shade’s flank, and Zevran re-entered the battle, blades flashing as he countered the shade’s attacks. Sten shook off the mental assault first, his greatsword slamming down next to the shade as the demon dodged to one side, only for Daylen to stagger to his feet and tag it with a freezing spell. Focusing, he readied another Mana Clash, only for the spell to fizzle as the demon changed forms again after Alistair’s assault on its back proved effective.

The Sloth demon’s true form – resembling the horrors they had faced before – drew itself to its full height, and Daylen could feel power pulsing from it through the Fade. “No more games! Face me, and DIE!”

“ _You first_ ,” Daylen hissed, staggering it with a Mana Clash. Wynne froze the demon with a sustained burst of cold, and Morrigan joined in with an equally powerful torrent of lightning. Daylen mustered the last of his ready mana and added a blast of flame to the mix, the volatile magic mixing together at the point of convergence. “Everyone back!” Daylen bellowed. Looking to Morrigan, the Warden nodded, and the two mages dug deep, before dropping a simultaneous Mana Clash on the Sloth demon.

Daylen had expected a blast of released mana, or a final desperate curse, or even some cruel last words, but the Sloth demon simply collapsed, the Fade pulsing with the sheer amount of mana that had been released in such a short time.

“Now what?” Alistair asked, kicking the corpse. “How do we get out?”

“Give it a moment,” Daylen rasped, hearing the crackling noise as the constructed section of the Fade began to collapse in on itself.

Daylen’s eyes opened, and the mage scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his robes, feeling gummy residue smearing away. Sitting up, he spotted the others rousing themselves, coughing and groaning from various aches and pains as they awoke. The mage desperately wanted a drink of water, but stood and stumbled over to Niall’s corpse, kicking the Sloth demon’s body in the head on the way over.

“What are you looking for?” Alistair asked, standing and reclaiming his dropped sword. “And who was that?”

Fishing out the Litany of Adralla, Daylen held it up. “This is the Litany of Adralla. This mage is – was – Niall. I met him in the Fade. The Sloth demon used him to build the Fade realm we were all in.” Daylen gently closed Niall’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Niall.” Scanning the text, he quickly committed it to memory, passing it around to his companions to do the same.

“All that’s left is the Harrowing Chamber,” Wynne said. “If Irving still lives, he will be there.”

“Not quite,” Daylen replied. “We need to make sure this floor is clear.”

It wasn’t.

“All right, I’ll admit I’ve been away from the tower for a while,” Daylen grunted, trying to shift the corpse that was lying on his staff. “But when did they start keeping dragons here?”

“It’s a long story, one we do not have time for,” Wynne said softly.

Daylen nodded, still tugging on his lodged staff. “Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

The others left, but Leliana lingered a moment. “Daylen…I…are you all right?”

Daylen braced his boot against the dragon’s corpse, finally tugging the staff free. Leaning on it, he turned to the rogue. Leliana spotted the tears in his eyes. “No. No, I’m really not. Just about everyone I knew is dead, or possessed, or just plain missing. That corruption you’ve seen spread around the tower? I’ve recognized faces in it.” The mage’s voice remained level, even as his face twisted in pain and anger. “Faces of people I knew and cared about. The only thing that’s keeping me from sitting down, curling up, and sobbing like a child until the Blight rolls over us is rage. I have _never_ been more susceptible to possession than I am right now, but I haven’t heard so much as a single whisper from a demon. Perhaps they know better, perhaps they’re too scared.”

His voice dropped lower, growing cold. The archer spotted his knuckles turning white as his grip on his staff tightened, the wood creaking under his grip. “I am going to _destroy_ Uldred. And then, after that, I may just kill Greagoir for letting things get this bad. He had a full contingent of Templars at his command, and they retreated in the face of a force we’ve essentially routed in less than a day!”

Leliana stepped back in surprise at the venom in his voice. “Daylen…”

The Warden shook his head, the mask back in place. “Please, let’s just go. I want to leave this place.”

—ROTG—

“Oh, Maker, _now what_ ,” Daylen spat, pushing through the crowd of his companions and seeing Alistair bickering with a Templar confined inside a barrier.

Then he saw the bodies. He made a momentary effort to count the ones he could – and gave up when he reached twenty, and began seeing more body parts than bodies. More of the corruption was spread across the walls and ceiling, the odd horrific squelching noise audible in the room.

That was the point Daylen threw up. Repeatedly. When nothing but bile was coming up, he dragged a sleeve across his mouth and stood, looking to the arguing warriors.

“Filthy blood mages,” the Templar said, more to himself than Alistair. “Getting in my head! I will not break. I’d rather die.”

“Nobody here is a blood mage-” Alistair sighed, only for Daylen to nudge him in the shoulder. Sighing, Alistair stood aside, letting Daylen speak to the confined Templar.

“You’re not going to die,” Daylen said. “Now snap out of it. I need information and I have _no time_ for games.”

“Silence!” The Templar stood, glaring at Daylen. “I’ll not listen to anything you say. Now begone!”

“Watch your mouth,” Daylen growled.

“Still here?” the Templar said, confused. “But that’s always worked before. I close my eyes, but you are still here when I open them.”

“Pretty dense, aren’t you, Cullen?” Daylen asked, finally recognizing the man through the blood, sweat, and crazed demeanor.

“Don’t blame me for being cautious,” Cullen said suspiciously, his head low. “The voices, the images, they’ve been so real.” The Templar finally looked at him closely, clearly recognizing him. “Why have you returned to the tower? How did you survive?”

“By not being completely fucking incompetent,” Daylen snarled. “I’ll be having words with your commanding officer after this. But first, I’m going to fry Uldred to a crisp.”

“Good,” the Templar agreed, looking up at Daylen from beneath lowered brows. “Kill Uldred. Kill them all for what they’ve done. They caged us like animals…looked for ways to break us. I’m the only one left…”

“Can’t agree with their methods, but it must be a surprise when the slaves fight back,” Daylen said. “What happened? Besides having the tables turned on you, I mean.”

“They turned some into monsters, and there was nothing I could do.”

Daylen grunted. “Uldred will pay for what he’s done.”

Cullen sneered. “And to think I once thought we were too hard on you.”

Daylen glared at him. “Take care what you say, man. I’m a mage, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Did a mage not start this? Isn’t one of you to blame? Only mages have that much power at their fingertips. Only mages are so susceptible to the infernal whisperings of the demons.”

“Were the Templars not supposed to watch for this exact situation?” Daylen shot back. “Aren’t _all of you_ to blame? You want to blame all of us for Uldred’s actions, I’ll blame you for Greagoir leaving innocents to die! Uldred did this so the Circle would be independent from Templar tyranny. I’m still going to kill the prick, but I can understand where he’s coming from! And as for only mages being susceptible to possession? I’ve killed at least a dozen possessed Templars today alone, _so don’t start with me_!” The end came out louder than Daylen intended, and the mage clenched his fists, exhaling slowly. “Where are Irving and the other mages?”

“They are in the Harrowing Chamber,” Cullen replied. “The sounds coming out from there…oh, Maker.”

“We must hurry,” Wynne urged. “They are in grave danger, I am sure of it.”

“You can’t save them!” Cullen insisted. “You don’t know what they’ve become!”

“And you do?” Daylen challenged.

“They’ve been surrounded by…by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts!” Daylen looked around at the dozens of bodies around them and felt a momentary surge of pity for the Templar. Then the man kept talking. “You have to end it now, before it’s too late! To ensure this horror is ended, to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill _everyone_ up there! You cannot tell maleficarum by sight. Just one could influence the mind of a king, of a grand cleric!”

“Lucky for Thedas, you don’t get to make that decision,” Daylen said flatly, downing a half-strength lyrium potion and coughing out a ragged breath. “I do. Now sit down and keep quiet.” Jerking his head at the others, Daylen led the party up the stairs.

It was hard not to think of the last time he had ascended the stairs, surrounded by silent Templars and unsure of whether he was going to his Harrowing or Tranquility before Irving spoke to him.

It was easy to spot Uldred. He still looked human, more or less, but his eyes held a wide, unblinking madness that Daylen was moderately sure had not been there at Ostagar. Then again, having that Revered Mother whining in his ear probably would have driven Daylen insane in Uldred’s position. A half-dozen abominations, their bodies twisted by the possession, were standing nearby, waiting for orders from Uldred.

“Ah, look what we have here,” Uldred sing-songed. “I remember you. Irving’s star pupil. Uldred didn’t think much of you then, and I certainly don’t see your appeal now.”

“I always thought Uldred was a bit of a tosser, really,” Daylen shot back. “And considering what I’ve seen here, pardon me if I’m not terribly impressed with the new Uldred.”

“I suppose one can’t be loved universally,” Uldred sighed. “I’m quite impressed you’re still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you killed my servants.”

Daylen nodded. “Barring the ones in this room? Yes, every single one. You have minions. _And you’re running out_.” [4] The others were quietly spreading out behind him, weapons ready.

Uldred shrugged. “Ah, well, they are probably better off dying in the service of their betters than living with the terrible responsibility of independence.”

“You’re next, arseclown,” Daylen snarled.

“Wait, wait, wait! Let’s not be hasty. I’m trying to have a civilized conversation here.”

Daylen glanced around the room, making careful note of the fact that Irving was still alive and by all appearances not possessed. So, he noted, were three other Senior Enchanters. All of them looked badly injured, but being bound was a good sign they remained un-possessed. “You have only seconds to live. Talk quickly.”

“A mage is but the larval form of something greater. Your Chantry vilifies us, calls us abominations, when we have truly reached our full potential!”

“Uldred, you are such a fucking twit,” Daylen said. “Even if you manage to kill us – which is not going to happen, in case you were wondering, I’m going to paint the sodding walls with you – you're going to have about two hundred Templars coming in to kill everyone in here.”

“You are deeply mistaken, child,” Uldred sneered. “We have unleashed our true power with these demons, and–”

“Yes, yes, you've unlocked true power, you're unstoppable, we'll all bow before you or be crushed under your boot, I've heard all this before,” Daylen snapped. “Usually followed by screams, gurgling noises, and 'Warden! Please stop killing me!' and then more screaming.” He scratched his beard. “Typically a lot of screaming when I really cut loose.”

“Big talk,” Uldred sniffed. “But once you join with us…you will see just how freeing it is. Irving himself said as much as you, but he will see our point of view soon enough.”

Daylen's face hardened. “I am going to kill you _so much_.” [5]

—ROTG—

_Hierarchy of the Circle  
It is no simple matter, safeguarding ordinary men from mages, and mages from themselves. Each Circle tower must have some measure of self-government, for it is ever the Maker's will that men be given the power to take responsibility for our own actions: To sin and fail, as well as to achieve the highest grace and glory on our own strength._

_You, who will be tasked with the protection of the Circle, must be aware of its workings. The first enchanter is the heart of any tower. He will determine the course his Circle will take, he will choose which apprentices may be tested and made full mages, and you will work most closely with him._

_Assisting the first enchanter will be the senior enchanters, a small council of the most trusted and experienced magi in the tower. From this group, the next first enchanter is always chosen. Beneath the council are the enchanters. These are the teachers and mentors of the tower, and you must get to know them in order to keep your finger on the pulse of the Circle, for the enchanters will always know what is happening among the children._

_All those who have passed their Harrowing but have not taken apprentices are mages. This is where most trouble in a Circle lies, in the idleness and inexperience of youth. The untested apprentices are the most numerous denizens of any tower, but they more often pose threats to themselves, due to their lack of training, than to anyone else._

_\--Knight-Commander Serain of the Chantry Templars, in a letter to his successor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Supernatural. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2NCIS. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. [ return to text ]
> 
> 4Mass Effect 3. [ return to text ]
> 
> 5Fallout 3. [ return to text ]
> 
> A/N: The Circle is, quite plainly, a fucking nightmare. There’s just short of two hundred bodies you find dead, make dead, or re-kill, and counting the few people that do survive, there’s just over twenty people you find alive. And that’s not counting how many people were completely ripped apart or absorbed into those flesh sacks. And thirty-five bodies were in with Cullen – it’s not surprising he took the views he did on mages. There are no words for how horrifying this is when you do the numbers, and there’s no option for the Warden, even a non-mage Warden, to be affected by this mess.


	10. Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group throws down with Uldred, followed by the aftermath of the Circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, everyone, I had next to no time to work on the chapter thanks to work. I'm almost done with the next chapter - hopefully I'll have it up within the next week or two.

_Beyond the Veil: Spirits and Demons  
It is challenging enough for the casual observer to tell the difference between the Fade and the creatures that live within it, let alone between one type of spirit and another. In truth, there is little that distinguishes them, even for the most astute mages. Since spirits are not physical entities and are therefore not restricted to recognizable forms (or even having a form at all), one can never tell for certain what is alive and what is merely part of the scenery. (It is therefore advisable for the inexperienced researcher to greet all objects he encounters.)_

_Typically, we misuse the term “spirit” to refer only to the benign, or at least less malevolent, creatures of the Fade, but in truth, all the denizens of the realm beyond the Veil are spirits. As the Chant of Light notes, everything within the Fade is a mimicry of our world. (A poor imitation, for the spirits do not remotely understand what they are copying. It is no surprise that much of the Fade appears like a manuscript translated from Tevinter into Orlesian and back again by drunken initiates.)_

_In general, spirits are not complex. Or, rather, they are not complex as we understand such things. Each one seizes upon a single facet of human experience: Rage, hunger, compassion, hope, etc. This one idea becomes their identity. We classify as demons those spirits who identify themselves with darker human emotions and ideas._

_The most common and weakest form of demon one encounters in the Fade is the rage demon. They are much like perpetually boiling kettles, for they exist only to vent hatred, but rarely have an object to hate. Somewhat above these are the hunger demons, who do little but eat or attempt to eat everything they encounter, including other demons (this is rarely successful). Then there are the sloth demons. These are the first intelligent creatures one typically finds in the Fade. They are dangerous only on those rare occasions that they can be induced to get up and do harm. Desire demons are more clever, and far more powerful, using all forms of bribery to induce mortals into their realms: Wealth, love, vengeance, whatever lies closest to your heart. The most powerful demons yet encountered are the pride demons, perhaps because they, among all their kind, most resemble men._

_\--From Beyond the Veil: Spirits and Demons, by Enchanter Mirdromel._

—ROTG—

Daylen had a Mana Clash ready to cast as soon as he had finished speaking.

Uldred was faster. The possessed mage dropped a fireball on Daylen, sending the Warden flying back, his robes smoldering and his hair and beard crinkling and crisping under the heat. The mage coughed as he landed flat on his back and rolled onto his side, gasping as his throat ached. Shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, he spotted Uldred.

Or, rather, what he thought might have once _been_ Uldred. Now, it was a Pride demon, in its full glory, not unlike the massive beast that had masqueraded as Mouse during Daylen’s Harrowing. Vaguely humanoid, the creature was larger than an ogre, horns working their way back from the top of its head and spiky protrusions erupting from its hide. Both arms bore wickedly curved spikes at the elbow, one side asymmetrically long. Far too many eyes glinted from the front of the beast’s head, a grotesque, warped muzzle that bore no resemblance to a human face.

And it was staring at Daylen, its teeth bared in what appeared to be a gleeful grin.

“Not good,” Daylen rasped, the skin of his face aching from the heat, burns making themselves known. “Morrigan, hit the abominations!” The sharp _bang_ of a Mana Clash rang out, and the abominations dropped to the floor of the Harrowing Chamber. His hands shaking, Daylen hit Uldred with a lightning bolt, ignoring the stench of his own burning hair as he followed up and threw a fireball of his own back.

Uldred shrugged it off, and Daylen growled, pushing himself to his feet and pumping raw mana into the air around his body, feeling his magic surging. Focusing, the Warden dropped a Mana Clash on Uldred. The abomination barely stumbled, and Daylen snarled, grabbing his dropped staff off the floor and fished around in his satchel, pulling out a lyrium potion. Chugging it as he cast, Daylen released a torrent of lightning, feeling the enchantments on the staff responding to his magic.

The Pride demon barely seemed to care. And it was about to charge. The warriors were trying to get close, slashing and hacking – and in Cupcake’s case biting – where they could, but the demon’s sweeping strikes kept them at bay. Leliana’s arrows and the other mages’ spells peppered its hide, but were doing little effective damage.

Then Zevran appeared through the chaos, his blades flashing in the flickering light, and sank deep into the back of the Pride demon’s knee. Zevran twisted his sword in the wound, demonic ichor spilling onto the floor of the Harrowing Chamber, and the beast bellowed in pain, twisting at the waist and kicking the elf across the room.

“Wynne!” Daylen shouted. “Get him back on his feet!” The demon fell to one knee, looking to the cluster of bound mages in the corner.

Then Uldred’s voice issued from the creature’s mouth. “Do you accept the gift that I offer?” Lightning crackled around one of the bound mages.

“The Litany!” Wynne shouted, her staff turning back towards Uldred as Zevran stood unsteadily, his more serious wounds closed. “Use it now!” A white burst of light erupted under Uldred, and the demon stopped moving – a paralyzing trap glyph from the Senior Enchanter.

Daylen felt his lips moving, shouting the Litany even as he hit Uldred in the jaw with a lump of conjured stone. The lightning around the mage vanished, and Daylen breathed easier, feeling he had just saved a life. “Morrigan!” Daylen shouted. “Cast a Tempest!”

“Are you mad?” She cried. “We are too close!”

“Do it!” Daylen dug deep on his mana, going through the proscribed motions for one of his strongest spells. “Everybody get back!”

Wynne glanced over at him, her eyes widening in recognition. “Wait!”

Daylen’s blizzard landed a moment after Morrigan’s tempest – and had some unintended effects. The two spells combined, unleashing a powerful electric and icy maelstrom that ripped at Uldred’s hide, the beast curling up against the might of the magic.

For his part, Daylen collapsed, the increased draw on his magic nearly knocking him out. Splayed across the floor of the Harrowing Chamber, he fumbled with a lyrium potion, cursing. Yanking the cork with his teeth, he drank deeply, hearing Leliana chanting the Litany aloud as she kept up her rate of fire. Lightning would appear momentarily around one of the bound mages, only to dissipate a moment later due to the rogue’s work. Daylen felt the serum trickling into his beard through numb lips, but swallowed as much as he could, feeling a measure of strength returning to his limbs.

Wynne was suddenly at his side, pulling him to his feet with one hand under his arm. “That spell combination is _extremely dangerous_ ,” she snapped. “Move!”

The warriors were backing up, avoiding entering the storm itself. “Get the First Enchanter out of here!” Daylen shouted, Alistair sheathing his weapons and grabbing Irving under the armpits. Dragging the bound and injured mage towards the stairs, Alistair kicked a dead abomination aside, bringing the First Enchanter behind cover. Cupcake’s jaws latched around the ankle of one of the other bound mages and began dragging him over as well, the mage too dazed from days of torture to resist.

The storm dissipated suddenly under a burst of magic from the demon, and Uldred scrabbled forward, its hamstrung leg dragging behind it as charged at Daylen. The demon’s hide was ragged and raw from the power of the storm, and muscle and bone were visible in patches.

“Not again,” Daylen breathed, ducking and rolling forward as Uldred’s arm swung over his head. Wynne, to her credit, sprinted to one side, getting out of the Pride demon’s way. The mage skidded forward and rolled to his feet, marveling at having not landed on his face as he hit Uldred with a heavy burst of frost. Feeding more mana into the spell, he sustained the spray of ice magic, freezing the demon solid. There was a brief pause as the party stared at the frozen demon that at the moment looked like the world’s ugliest sculpture.

Then the Warden pointed. “Get ‘im!”

Swords, arrows, and spells carved against, slammed into, and splashed across the demon’s form, blood spattering the floor stones as shouted taunts, profanity, and the Litany of Adralla echoed off the walls.

One of Uldred’s horns clattered to the ground as Daylen’s latest stone projectile went high, snapping the demon’s head back. It ripped off one of the horns, and then impacted the far wall of the chamber.

Leliana’s latest arrow thunked into the demon’s exposed neck, and it gurgled, more blood spurting from the wound.

Sten’s greatsword bit into the creature’s arm behind the elbow spikes, the blade severing the muscles and leaving the arm hanging uselessly.

Alistair and Zevran’s footwork carried them gracefully around each other and the demon’s wild swing, their blades streaming blood as they hacked away at Uldred.

A blast of ice from Wynne froze the demon’s other arm to the floor, and Alistair jammed his sword into the demon’s elbow joint with a roar, twisting the blade as he pulled it back.

Morrigan’s staff danced, entropic curses mixing with bursts of primal magic as her spells weakened the demon, twisted its mind and perceptions, and just plain shocked the shit out of it.

Uldred flailed, its crippled arms whirling as it tried to batter back Zevran, Alistair, and Sten. The first two ducked. Sten’s enchanted breastplate caught the brunt of the attack, the Juggernaut armor holding – barely – and the warrior merely stumbling back instead of being smacked across the room.

“Blind it!” Daylen bellowed, charging up a burst of magic. Excess lightning arced from his staff to the floor, and he felt his scorched hair and beard standing on end from the discharge. “Leliana, _blind it!_ ”

One of the demon’s eyes went dark as an arrow pierced it, and it screeched in pain, shuddering as Morrigan hit it with a Mana Clash and Zevran’s incendiary flask smashed against the side of its head. The flames licked at its ragged hide as Leliana put out another eye, and Daylen hissed as he felt the skin of his staff hand beginning to blister and burn from the sheer amount of magic he had mustered.

“Oi! Prick! Down here!” The beast turned its remaining eyes on Daylen, just in time for him to release the full force of the pent-up torrent of lightning directly into its face.

It was quite possibly the single most powerful burst of magic the mage had ever unleashed, barring the massive blizzard he had shown a knack for. Smoke streamed from the beast’s head as lightning arced between the remaining horns, the demon’s eyes bursting under the attack and demonic ichor streaming from its ears.

Daylen felt his remaining mana draining fast and dug deep, pushing his magic harder and feeling a surge of strength flood back into him as Wynne hit him with a rejuvenation spell. His vision blurring, Daylen fought to keep the staff on target, the demon’s screeches muddling with the crackling of the lightning and the pounding in his ears.

There was an enormous crash as the demon hit the ground, the body twitching grotesquely and the majority of its face simply gone, seared away from the strength of Daylen’s attack. The Warden himself weaved drunkenly, digging around in his pouch for another lyrium potion. Tipping it back, he gagged as his body protested the fresh surge of mana, dropping the empty vial and ignoring the shaking in his hands.

“Is it…is it dead?” Leliana asked, nocking another arrow.

“I think so,” Daylen coughed. “Any volunteers to go poke it with a stick?”

Sten sighed, striding forward and slamming the edge of his greatsword into the beast’s mangled snout. The body remained still. “Yes. Dead.”

“Good riddance,” Daylen spat, coughing again as the coating of lyrium in his throat made it hard to breathe. “Where’s Irving?”

“Maker,” the mage in question groaned, standing up. “I’m too old for this.”

Daylen gave the man a stonefaced stare. “You all right?”

“I’ve…” Irving paused, wincing as various injuries protested. “I’ve been better. But I am thankful to be alive.”

Daylen jerked his head once. “Good. Now, then.” Rearing back, he punched Irving on the jaw, sending the old man sprawling. “ _What is wrong with you_?” He shouted. Wynne moved to protest, but Daylen continued, leaning on his staff as his legs wavered. “The Circle is gutted! Uldred and his little pack of blood mages killed or turned nearly everyone! There’s maybe a dozen mages alive downstairs. _Maybe_ some made it into the storage caves under the tower and _maybe_ they’re still alive, but that’s all that’s left! Where were you?”

“I-”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Daylen interrupted. “You trusted Uldred – _one man_ – to give you information on who was dabbling in blood magic?” He stared at Uldred, realization flickering in his eyes. “Maker, it was Uldred who gave you the information on Jowan, wasn’t it.” Irving flinched, and Daylen snarled, shivering as the rush of battle began to wear off. “You _bastard_. For all we know, he hadn’t done it before you lot put his back to the wall.” Daylen pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, trying to ignore the pounding headache he was developing. “You…I need to get out of here.” He pointed at the other mages they had rescued. “You two. Make your way downstairs. The survivors will be waiting for you down there. Do _not_ attempt to open the door to the entry hall yet. I’m going to check the storage caves. Irving, you’re coming with me.”

It didn’t take long for the party to find the survivors. Irving’s voice was distinctive enough that the barricade was removed at his order, and almost thirty mages filed out, looking about warily. Blood spattered their robes, and to a man they looked hungry and exhausted, but they were alive. Only a third of them wore the robes of apprentices.

One of the senior enchanters stepped past Daylen with a sneer, looking to Irving. “Did you stop Uldred, First Enchanter?”

“No,” Irving replied. “This young man did.” The senior enchanter blanched, turning to apologize, but Daylen had already moved on.

“Anybody hurt?” He asked quietly.

“We’re more than capable of healing our own, _Warden_ ,” one of the other enchanters said.

“Show a little gratitude,” Alistair broke in, stepping up behind Daylen. “We happen to be the only reason you’re still alive.”

“Yes, alive for the Templars to kill us!” the enchanter shot back.

“Greagoir will stand down if Irving says the trouble is over,” Wynne replied.

“How do you know? How can you be sure he won’t kill all of us just to be safe?”

“It has occurred to me,” Daylen said softly. “But with the forces he has left? I don’t see it happening. The reinforcements are still at least a day away. Now shut up.” Walking away, he shouldered past the senior enchanter and pulled Irving aside. “Can we talk?”

“What is on your mind, Daylen?” Irving asked as the two stepped into the next room.

“I can’t do this,” Daylen said flatly.

Irving paused, looking at him closely. Perhaps he was thinking about his previous interactions with Daylen, perhaps the Warden had blood stuck in his beard. It was hard to tell. “Explain, if you would.”

There was a moment’s pause before the dam broke. “It's all on me!” Daylen cried. “Everything. Everyone's lives. It's all resting on my shoulders. And _I_ _can't do it_! I've been blindly reacting to things since the night of my Harrowing! I am not equipped to handle this! The only thing that's kept us alive and the only thing that's had us succeed in any way is blind luck. Everything I've done on my own initiative caused trouble, and that can only mean that I just can't be trusted to make my own decisions. Or it means that literally everyone in this nation is set to commit suicide, and they can't possibly be that stupid! Because if they did, the only reason I would have to save this place is because I'm one of the idiots who happens to live here!”

“Daylen-”

“If I screw up, or run away, or get myself killed, it's all over. Do you know what that's like? No! If you die, they'll elect another First Enchanter. You're replaceable. And I imagine that's nice. Knowing that the fate of a nation doesn't rest on your shoulders. If I fail, Ferelden will be completely destroyed. And everyone keeps throwing obstacles in my way. 'Sorry, Warden, you're too easy a scapegoat for my power-grab! Hope you don't mind being painted as a regicide and traitor as you try to do your job!' 'Sorry about the world-ending threat, Warden, but if you wouldn't mind lifting this curse that I cast and is now coming back to literally bite me in the arse before I fulfill my obligation to _keep everyone from getting fucking killed_! And if you wouldn't mind, could you do my laundry while you're at it?' ‘Sorry, Warden, we know you’re pledged to help you but we’re so _fucking_ incompetent that we need you to do our jobs for us!’”

There was a long moment’s pause. “Do you feel better?” Irving asked.

“No,” Daylen said bitterly. “I don’t. Let’s go. I need to leave this place.”

—ROTG—

Daylen hammered on the door. “Oi! Open up, I’ve got the First Enchanter here!”

A Templar called back through the door, his voice nasally and muffled from his helmet. “Prove it!”

“Please open the door,” Irving replied. “I need to speak with the Knight-Commander.”

“Open the door,” Greagoir could be heard to order. The crossbar slid back, and the two mages stepped forward, the rest of the party following them. The surviving mages slowly filtered out, fear evident on their faces.

“Alistair, Leliana, speak to the quartermaster,” Daylen ordered. “Sell what loot we picked up, get us some supplies. I don’t want to stay here a moment longer than we have to.”

Meanwhile, the Knight-Commander was addressing the First Enchanter. “Irving? Maker’s breath, I did not expect to see you alive.”

“Not surprising, what with you abandoning him,” Daylen grumbled.

“It is over, Greagoir,” Irving said. “Uldred is dead.”

“Wait!” A voice called from deeper inside the tower. A Templar came sprinting out, and Daylen groaned as he recognized Cullen.

“Oh, not you again,” Daylen groaned. “I hoped you’d scuttled off to some corner to stop making trouble.”

“Uldred tortured these mages, hoping to break their wills and turn them into abominations,” Cullen declared, shoving past Daylen. “We don’t know how many of them have turned.”

Irving blanched. “What? Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Of course he’ll say that!” Cullen cried. “He might be a blood mage! Don’t you know what they did? I won’t let this happen again!”

“ _You_ won’t-” Daylen started, but Greagoir cut him off. The large man stepped forward, his face darkening and his presence shutting down the mage’s protest.

“ _I_ am the Knight-Commander here, not you.”

Daylen blinked in surprise, taken aback at the man’s response even as he felt his hands shake. “Well, what does the Knight-Commander think, then?”

“We have won back to the tower,” Greagoir replied. “I will accept Irving’s reassurances that all is well.”

“We?” Daylen mumbled under his breath.

“But they may have demons within them, lying dormant, lying in wait!” Cullen protested.

“Enough!” Greagoir snapped. “I have already made my decision.” Cullen grimaced, but stepped away as Greagoir turned to Daylen. “Thank you. You have proven yourself a friend of both the Circle, and the Templars.”

“Somebody had to do your job,” Daylen said bluntly. “Clearly you weren’t up to the task. You had a dozen Templars here, and you couldn’t take on a force we annihilated in hours?” He opened his mouth to further lambast the man, but closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “Never mind. You promised me aid. What now.”

“With the Circle restored, my duty is to watch the mages,” Greagoir said, giving Morrigan a sidelong glance. The witch glared at him, but said nothing. “They are free to help you, however. Speak to the First Enchanter about the details. Please, excuse me. And Irving…it is good to have you back.”

“Ah, I’m sure we’ll be at each other’s throats again in no time,” Irving said with a chuckle, turning to Daylen as Greagoir stepped away, speaking quietly with a few of the surviving Templars. “Here we are, the tower in disarray, the Circle nearly annihilated…though it could have been much, much worse. I am glad you arrived when you did. It’s almost as though the Maker Himself sent you.”

Daylen rolled his eyes, but paused and remembered where he had been when he first heard about the Templar reinforcements to the Circle. Deciding not to argue the matter, he shrugged. “I’m glad I could help. I came here seeking allies against the Blight.”

“The least we can do is help you against the darkspawn. I would hate to survive this only to be overcome by the Blight.”

“There are so few mages left…” Daylen said. “Can you spare them?”

Irving nodded. “You of all people should know that we are not to be underestimated. The mages you see here will be a great help to you. You have my word as first enchanter. The Circle will join the Grey Wardens in the fight.”

“Good,” Daylen nodded. “We’ll need to resupply, and-” he paused as Wynne stepped forward.

“Irving, I have a request. I seek leave to follow the Grey Wardens.”

“Wynne, we need you here,” Irving protested. “The Circle needs you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Irving, but the Circle will do fine without me,” Wynne said, waving off the objection. “The Circle has you.” She gestured to Daylen. “This man is brave and good, and capable of great things. If he will accept my help, I will help him accomplish his goals.”

Daylen paused, considering the situation. “Well, this is a problem. You’re definitely needed here, but my party could certainly use another healer.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a spark of healing magic leaping between his fingers and washing away the headache. “All right. If you really want to, you can come with us.”

“You were never one to stay in the tower when there was adventure to be had elsewhere,” Irving said fondly.

“Why stay when I can be of service elsewhere?” Wynne asked rhetorically.

“Because these people could use a helping hand?” Daylen replied.

Nobody addressed his statement. Irving spoke directly to Wynne. “Then I give you leave to follow the Grey Warden, but know that you always have a place here.” Looking to Daylen, he gave him a sad nod. “There is much to be done here, and I must go. You must forgive me for not being a proper host. When the time comes, we will stand beside you.”

“I understand,” Daylen said. “Until we meet again, then.”

“We’re all supplied,” Alistair reported as Irving walked away. The warrior had a sack of coin at his belt and a box of supplies in his arms.

“Good, let’s get out of this blasted place,” Daylen declared.

“Warden, wait,” Greagoir said suddenly.

Daylen stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Yes? What is it?”

“This woman,” he replied, pointing at Morrigan. “She is a mage, is she not?”

Daylen could tell  _something_ bad was about to happen. It was just the way his luck was. “What's your point?”

“She is an apostate, and cannot be allowed to leave,” Greagoir declared.

“You will not hold me in this prison,” Morrigan spat. “I will not submit like these pet mages.”

“Morrigan, please,” Daylen said sweetly. “Allow me to handle this.” He looked to Greagoir. “Knight-Commander, I just spent the better part of a day doing your job for you. I have killed demons of all kinds, abominations wearing the faces of people I counted as friends, and a sodding revenant. I fought with more demons than you'll ever see, both in the Fade and here in our world. In the process, I consumed enough lyrium to supply the Circle for a month. I am tired.  _I am angry._  And I don't give a  _damn_ what you think your duty is! You couldn't hold her even if you tried. And believe me, you don't want to try. Even if she didn't kill the lot of you on her way out of the tower, do you think I would stand for you trying to arrest her? I would tear this tower down to the foundations if it stood between us.”

“You cannot fight all of us,” Greagoir hissed.

Daylen opened his mouth to yell some more, before pausing and looking at him sadly. “Haven't you lost enough men for one day?” Greagoir's concern for his men seemed to be enough to momentarily overwhelm his training, and the man sagged. Daylen pressed on. “You don't have the Templars left to police the mages you've got. She's not under your purview, she's part of a Warden task force. Let it go, man.”

“Go. But if she becomes an abomination, if she hurts someone…there is nowhere in Thedas you will be able to hide from Templar justice.”

—ROTG—

Bodahn caught up with them that night, entering the Spoiled Princess where the party was staying. “Hoped I’d find you all here,” the affable dwarf said in greeting. “Problems at the tower cleared up, then?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Daylen grunted, staring into his ale. A plate of chicken bones and a few scraps of collard greens sat next to him. The burned sections of his hair and beard still clung to his head, the hairs gnarled from the heat. “Two down, two to go.” The dwarf frowned, glancing at Alistair.

The warrior jerked his head away from Daylen, and the dwarf and the human stepped away from the brooding mage. “Sorry about that, Bodahn,” Alistair said quietly. “The tower…there was an uprising. Blood magic, demons.” The dwarf flinched, and Alistair glanced back at Daylen. “We cleaned the place out, but most of the Circle didn’t make it. He saw a lot of his friends dead. He’s…not dealing with it very well.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Daylen called. “I’m depressed, not deaf. Sorry about leaving you behind, Bodahn, but we had to get here ahead of the Templar reinforcements.”

Bodahn waved off his apology as the two rejoined Daylen at the table. “Nothing to worry about. It gave me the chance to find out about an opportunity I felt you might be interested in. I understand you’ll be headed to Orzammar at some point. Should you find yourself passing by Sulcher’s Pass, there’s a man there who claims to have a golem for sale. A golem like that could kill a lot of darkspawn!”

“Would be expensive, though,” Daylen pointed out, scrubbing at his head. Burned hair crumbled away, and he grimaced as he felt the newly ragged shape of his beard. “We can look into it. Anything else?”

The dwarf nodded. “There’s news come out of Redcliffe at last,” Bodahn said. “Seems that Arl Eamon has come down with some deadly sickness, probably the Blight, and he may even die. If he does, that probably means nobody else can stand up to Teyrn Loghain in the Landsmeet.” The dwarf paused. “Rather fortunate turn for the Teyrn, though.”

“Well, that’s…impossible,” Alistair remarked. “To contract Blight sickness you need to be in contact with ghouls or darkspawn. I’m sure the darkspawn haven’t reached Redcliffe yet, and Arl Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar.” He gave Daylen a pained look. “Daylen…”

“I know,” Daylen sighed, downing the rest of his ale. “We’ll head there next. Maybe Arl Eamon can help us out financially. If nothing else, it’ll be nice to have a place for the armies to gather.”

“Well what about that place that trader mentioned?” Alistair asked. “Soldier’s Peak?”

Daylen shook his head. “Soldier’s Peak was abandoned two hundred years ago. Some texts consider it a myth. If it’s there, we’d have to rebuild it first. Plus, it’s in the north of Ferelden, between Highever and Amaranthine if Levi marked the map correctly.”

“Understood,” Alistair said.

“Maybe after the Blight,” Daylen continued with a snort. “If we survive.” He glanced out the window, frowning at the setting sun. “We’ll have to stay the night. What have we got in the way of coin?”

“Not enough for everyone,” Alistair said flatly. “Not enough for most of us, in fact.”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s a bloke outside in a cowl with a sack next to him. Take Zevran with you, just in case. Give him these,” he passed over a sheaf of vellum sheets, “and bring back the coin he gives you. That ought to cover most of the party. Sten and I will sleep outside. I’m not putting anyone else out, and I doubt any of these beds would fit Sten anyway. Get our people billeted – Wynne and Leliana look especially weary.”

Alistair quirked an eyebrow. “ _Our_ people?”

Daylen glanced over at him. “Well, yes. Last I checked you’re a Grey Warden too.”

“You’re the leader here. You’ve gotten us this far. If I was in charge, we’d still be wandering the Korcari Wilds looking for a clue. When people say ‘the Warden,’ they’re talking about you, not me.”

“When they tell our story, they’ll be talking about the two Wardens,” Daylen replied. “Don’t put yourself down, Alistair. You’re vital to this team.”

“In that case, I’m sleeping outside with you,” the warrior declared.

“First things first. Get what rooms you can.” As the warrior and the assassin left the building, Daylen looked across the room at the table where most of the rest of the party was seated. Morrigan and Wynne were glaring at each other, and Leliana had an exasperated look on her face. Shaking his head, the Warden stood and strode across the room. Wynne looked over at his approach and opened her mouth to speak. “Before anyone says anything,” Daylen said, drawing himself up to his full height, “you all can like or dislike each other as much as you want. But when the time comes, I expect all of you to do your utmost to help each other out and work together without any issues or reservations. Is that clear?” A pause. “ _Is that clear?_ ” He nodded at a chorus of muttered agreements. “Good. Now, here’s the situation. We don’t have enough coin for everyone to get rooms, so Alistair, Sten, and I will be sleeping outside. The rest of you will sleep in here. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Any questions?”

“No, but I should like to retire,” Wynne said, standing up with a sigh. “Oh, it’s been a long day. Rest would be welcome.”

Daylen’s brow furrowed. He noted Alistair re-entering the inn and passing behind him, heading for the innkeeper. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes of course. I am just a little…weary,” the enchanter replied, glancing away. “As you may have noticed, I’m no spring chicken.”

Morrigan opened her mouth to comment, but Daylen gave her an exasperated look. The witch glared at him, but remained silent. “There’s still some life in those old bones, I’d bet,” Daylen replied. “From what I saw at the Circle, you’re very sprightly for your age.”

“Thank you,” Wynne said warmly. “You’re very kind to say so.” The two stepped away from the others as Alistair finished arranging the rooms, a pile of coins on the counter. Alistair nodded to the two as they passed by. “But in all honesty, I do not know how many years I have left in me. I have lived for such a long time. But there’s always something else to do, and I have to keep going in order to do it. I think I will be glad when I am…done.”

Daylen shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll be kicking around for years yet. After all, you’re helping me end the Blight, and it could last years. The last one lasted over a decade.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Wynne said softly. “I really don’t.” There was a long pause as the two went up the stairs before she spoke again. “Have you encountered many abominations apart from the ones in the Circle Tower?”

“One,” Daylen replied softly. “Why do you ask?”

“You are younger than I, and your nerves yet have some steel in them,” Wynne explained. “Did you feel any fear facing the abominations?”

“Some, but I knew it was either kill or be killed,” Daylen said. “Faltering or hesitating, like I did at Ostagar…it wasn’t an option. And I _was_ rather well-armed to fight them. Abominations die the same as most anything else provided you poke them hard enough, but I had an advantage.”

“Yes, that interesting spell you and Morrigan used was rather useful,” Wynne agreed. “The first time I saw an abomination, my blood turned to ice. It was months before the nightmares stopped. It was the knowledge that I could easily become one of them that frightened me the most.”

Daylen’s cheek twitched. “Seeing the monster that you apparently could be is unsettling, yes, but it is this sort of knowledge that drives us to be cautious.”

“One slip,” Wynne said. “All it takes is one slip, and everything you are is simply gone, replaced by madness. And there is no turning back. Or, at least that’s what they say.”

“I haven’t seen any abominations regain their senses, but I haven’t left any alive long enough to really test that,” Daylen replied. “You have doubts?”

“Of late I have begun to wonder if…if there is any way an abomination can be…cured. Or if a mage could be so possessed and still retain their sanity. Their humanity.”

“I’m not sure it would be possible,” Daylen mused. “If it were a benevolent spirit, not a demon, then perhaps, but benevolent spirits don’t typically come in contact with us, in the Fade or elsewhere. If one retains one’s humanity, I would say one isn’t an abomination – yes, the term in the strictest sense means any mage who is possessed, but it was also defined by rather short-sighted people who couldn’t conceive of such a situation.”

“Yes,” Wynne said softly, her eyes distant as she thought about his words. “It is madness and cruelty that define abominations. If those are lacking, if the mage remembers the person they truly are, then…then they are not an abomination.” She looked at the younger mage and smiled. “I never saw that. Thank you for showing me another way of looking at it.”

Alistair came around the corner a moment later with Zevran, Morrigan, and Leliana in tow. “You’ll be in these rooms,” he said, pointing out the rooms their freshly-spent coin had procured.

“In that case, I will retire,” Wynne replied, nodding politely to the two Wardens. “Goodnight.”

—ROTG—

Daylen groaned as he sat up, tugging his robes closer around himself. Stepping out of his tent, he stood up straight, wincing as his back popped. Alistair was already awake, his tent packed up and sitting on a barrel. “This miraculous ability I have to sleep on the one spot that has a hidden rock to jab me in the back all night is _going to kill me_.”

Alistair looked over, squinting at the mage. “You all right?”

Daylen nodded. “I will be. I’m starved, but we’d best get on the road. Where’s Sten?”

“Not a clue,” Alistair said. “I was busy sleeping.” He caught the eye of a passing fisherman. “Excuse me. Have you seen a man about seven feet tall, greatsword on his back, look on his face like his son just told him he wanted to juggle fish for a living?” The fisherman pointed up the hill, and Daylen nodded his thanks, quickly packing up his gear.

He found Sten at the top of the hill, near the site the scavenger had been working on. Sten was standing there, motionless, his face utterly blank. Daylen waited a respectful distance, but the Qunari made no indication that he even noticed Daylen’s presence. The mage resolved to wait until the giant made the first move.

It was several minutes before Sten broke the silence. “I failed my men, Warden.” It was a simple statement, devoid of emotion.

“I would like to say that I can relate, but if a mage fails, it usually means they’ve been possessed or killed,” Daylen replied. “Our margin for error is nonexistent.”

“I led them here. I failed. I was not worthy to lead.”

“Is that why you follow me?” Daylen asked. “It struck me as unlikely that a Qunari would follow a mage.”

“Do you wish me to take command?” Sten asked flatly.

“Hardly,” Daylen said dryly. “I only ask why you follow my orders when the Qun demands that I be leashed.”

The Qunari did not turn to face him, but there was a slight tensing in the big man’s frame. “What do you know of the Qun?”

“Next to nothing,” Daylen admitted. “I have read of the Qunari’s approach towards the containment of mages. Do you truly believe I will lead you to your atonement?” The Qunari didn’t answer. “For what it’s worth, Sten, I am very glad to have you with us.”

Sten finally turned to look at him. “Let us move on.”

—ROTG—

Loghain was sitting in the council room, his usual chair the only filled one in the room. Maps, reports, and plans lay scattered on various tables around the room, and he leaned to one side, resting his elbow on the chair arm and resting his chin in his gauntleted hand.

His confidant coughed discreetly as he entered the room. “Sire? I have more news.”

“What is it, Rendon,” Loghain sighed, not looking up.

The Howe scion nodded. “Er…yes. Well, it seems the fighting has gone exactly as you-”

“Enough,” Anora said, striding into the room. “I would like to know what you intend to accomplish, father. Should we not be fighting the darkspawn instead of each other?”

Finally, Loghain moved, sitting up straighter and looking his daughter in the eye. “The nobility shall be brought into line, and then the darkspawn defeated.” He shook his head scornfully. “This is no true Blight, Anora. Only Cailan’s vanity demanded it be so.”

Howe spoke up. “Beg pardon, sire, but Blight or no, we may not have the manpower to face the darkspawn soon.”

Anora gritted her teeth in frustration. “Cailan approached the Orlesians for support, did he not?”

The wood of Loghain’s chair protested as he slammed an armored fist down on the arm of the chair. “ _Never!_ Maric and I drove those bastards out! We will _not_ roll out the welcome for them now!”

Anora refused to back down. “We need _help_ , father! We cannot deal with this crisis alone!”

“Ferelden _will_ stand on its own!” Loghain declared. “I will lead it through this, Anora! You must have faith in me!”

Anora’s blue eyes narrowed at her father. “Did you kill Cailan?”

There was a brief, but deeply uncomfortable pause. “Cailan’s death was his own doing,” Loghain replied.

Anora stared at her father a moment longer, before shaking her head, throwing up her hands, and storming out of the room.

—ROTG—

Wynne tutted as Cupcake bounded past their wagon again. “Your dog is filthy,” she remarked. “I can smell him fifty yards off.” The dog paused, looking back and giving a hurt whine.

“Good!” Daylen declared with a grin, winking at Alistair, who was riding alongside Bodahn in the other wagon. “He will fell our enemies with his stench!” The warrior snorted out a laugh, and Leliana rolled her eyes in the back of the wagon.

“That may be so, but all the same, I would like your permission to bathe him,” Wynne said.

“Once you’ve seen him rip the throat out of a hurlock, you stop thinking of him as bathe-able,” Daylen replied. “Besides, he’s a warhound, not some pampered and powdered lapdog.”

Wynne sighed in resignation. “I suppose that’s true.”

“He’s more of a lap-and-a-half dog,” Daylen mused. That time, Leliana giggled.

The enchanter sighed. “Just…make him sleep on the other side of the camp. With Alistair. With any luck, that will keep all the stench confirmed to one small area.” Alistair protested, but Cupcake whuffed happily, his tongue lolling out.

“So, Leliana,” Daylen said, looking over his shoulder. “I heard that in Orlais, minstrels are often spies. That true?”

“Where did you hear this?” Leliana asked.

“Well, I’ve spoken to a few Orlesians in my time, and I read it in a few history texts as well.”

“And you believe everything you hear?” Leliana asked with a laugh that lasted a few moments too long.

“Well, when several people tell me something that’s backed up by written texts, I tend to give it a little more credibility,” Daylen said quietly.

“Not all minstrels are spies, most are just singers and storytellers. But some of them are. Some are what we call bards.”

“This is one of those things where the words are different in a different language, isn’t it,” Daylen realized. “Fereldans use the words interchangeably. What’s the difference?”

“To do so in Orlais would cause misunderstanding. Bards are minstrels, and more. Spies, as you say. Some say there is a bard order, but I don’t think this is true. Many bards work alone, or in small groups, doing the bidding of a patron who pays for their services. If there is an organization behind it all, no one knows who they are.”

“What sort of services does a bard offer?” Daylen asked, making a few connections.

“What do you think?” Leliana asked rhetorically. “They infiltrate, steal, sometimes assassinate. It depends on the bard. In Orlais there is much rivalry amongst the high-born. They fight over land, influence, and the favor of the empress. But they cannot do this openly, because it is impolite, and in public they wear smiling faces and pretend to be civil. In secret they plot and scheme to destroy each other. It is a game completely meaningless to anyone but its players.”

“And how long were you a bard?” Daylen asked bluntly.

Leliana paused. “I…never said I was one.”

“You didn’t have to,” Daylen replied. “I figured out you’d had some sort of training the minute you started stabbing people in that tavern in Lothering. The fact that you know so much about bards filled in the rest.”

“I _would_ know a lot about them, having spent most of my adult life as one, as you’ve concluded.” Leliana admitted. “But does it really matter what I was? What’s past is past.”

“Well, the question remains how you got from being an Orlesian bard to being a cloistered sister in rural Ferelden.”

“I…found myself in Ferelden and sheltered from bad weather in the Chantry,” Leliana said carefully. “And when the storm passed, I just…did not want to leave. I like to say the Maker brought me here.”

“Well, if it is the Maker that brought you to us, I’ll have to send a thank you gift one of these days,” Daylen mused. “Sheltered from bad weather, eh?” Leliana nodded, her expression guarded. “I can understand that.” Leliana waited for him to continue, but Daylen seemed lost in thought, and the rogue was all too happy to let the matter go.

“Warden, I must ask you something,” Wynne said after a pause. Daylen looked over, his eyebrows raised. “Irving told me about how you became a Grey Warden, and that unpleasant incident that occurred prior to your departure from the Circle. Did you know of Jowan’s practicing blood magic?”

Daylen sighed. “No. I did not.”

“How could you not? He was your best friend. Surely you must have noticed something when-”

“Look, I get it, all right?” Daylen snapped. “I helped a maleficar escape. Just about everybody has taken me to task about it. I don’t need you to add to it. I’m already giving myself enough trouble over it.”

Wynne gave him a wary look. “You really did not notice?”

“He fooled me pretty well,” Daylen admitted. “He told me about Lily, and I assumed that his absence was just him seeing her in secret. And it _was_ , just not for as long as I thought.”

“And he didn’t seem any different after he started practicing forbidden magic?”

The younger mage sighed in frustration. “Jowan used to push his sleeves up a lot. When he was getting frustrated with a new spell, when he was winning or badly losing a card game, when he was about to launch into some passionate but badly reasoned point in an intense discussion.” The Warden smiled faintly. “You could identify him at a meal simply by looking down the table and picking out the bare forearms.” The smile faded. “It was only as Duncan and I were being rowed across Lake Calenhad on the way to Ostagar that I realized I hadn’t seen Jowan’s sleeves pushed up in weeks.” Daylen shook his head. “I should have been smarter. More aware.”

“Yes, you should have,” the enchanter said primly.

Daylen scowled at her. “I stand by the decision I made back then.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, and I respect that,” Wynne allowed. “Irving told me he was relieved Duncan was still willing to recruit you. But that aside, you’re a Grey Warden now, and perhaps I presume too much by saying this, but the Circle is proud of you.”

“Maybe,” Daylen replied. Wynne smiled faintly. “I mean, you don’t speak for the Circle, so maybe it is presuming.” The smile faded. Daylen felt smug for a moment but didn’t press the point, instead turning to Leliana again. “So, do you miss anything about Orlais?”

“I miss Val Royeaux,” the bard admitted. “Unlike other cities, where the people are the life-blood and the character, Val Royeaux was her own person, and her people little more than decorations.” Daylen blinked in confusion at the strange turn of phrase, but said nothing as Leliana continued. “There was always music in Val Royeaux, streaming from the many windows – quiet refrains and triumphant choruses. And always, floating above that all, the Chant, coming from the Grand Cathedral. It was magnificent.”

“I’ve never been to Orlais,” Daylen admitted. “Come to think of it, I’ve never been most places. Kirkwall, Amaranthine, and Kinloch Hold. They didn’t particularly let us out much.”

“If you get the chance, you should see it, at least Val Royeaux,” Leliana replied. “Of course, there are good things and bad things about Orlais, like anywhere else. Sometimes I miss it dearly, and sometimes I am glad I am rid of it.” She paused. “And you will laugh at this, but I miss the fine things I had in Orlais.” Daylen stared at her blankly. “What?”

“You’re talking to someone who for his entire life has never owned anything,” Daylen replied. “This isn’t something I can relate to. What ‘fine things’ are you talking about?”

“Dresses,” Leliana said. “Fine dresses, and furs.” Her eyes lit up. “And shoes, of course. One can’t mingle with nobility with bad shoes, you see. Orlais is very fashionable. Almost ridiculously so. Ahh, but the shoes. Living with those ridiculous trends was worth it for the shoes.”

“Suddenly a lot of what my mentor at the Kirkwall Circle went on about makes sense,” Daylen muttered. “What’s the big deal about shoes?”

“When I left Orlais, the fashion was shoes with delicate, tapered heels and embellishments in the front – a ribbon perhaps, or embroidery. In soft colors of course – it was spring!”

“That sounds lovely,” Daylen said dryly, utterly baffled at the obsession with footwear.

“I had my eye on a pair my shoemaker was working on. It was covered in pale blue silk, with amber beads on the toe. The shoes made in Orlais were exquisite. Not at all like these clunky fur-lined leather boots you have in Ferelden.” She looked down at the rough boots they had picked up for her from the Dalish. “Just look at them!”

“They’re comfortable and they keep the cold out,” Daylen said with a shrug.

“They’re sturdy shoes,” Leliana agreed, “but sometimes a girl just wants to have pretty feet.”

“And that’s my cue to relieve Sten,” Daylen said, hopping out of the moving wagon and nodding to the Qunari. The two swapped places, and Daylen clambered into the other wagon.

“Fleeing the females?” Alistair asked dryly, nibbling on a trail biscuit as Daylen sat down hard.

“Oh, hush you,” Daylen grumbled. “Between Wynne’s grudge over my leaving the Circle and Leliana talking about shoes, anyone would have made a hasty exit!”

Bodahn snickered from up front in the wagon. “I can’t say I blame you. I fled an entire city to get away from certain womenfolk.”

Daylen fought back a smile, before turning to Alistair. “It’s rare that I’m dealing with a group of women like that and not one of them wants to knock boots with me.” Alistair spat out a mouthful of biscuit, coughing out crumbs. “Sorry, mate, had to wait until you took a bite.” The warrior made a rude gesture at him, and Daylen went on. “Actually, that raises a question. I don’t mean to pry, but if you were raised in the Chantry, have you never…?”

Alistair’s brows raised. “Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?”

Daylen gave him a hard look. “Well, you asked for it. Have you never dipped the wick? Gone for a four-legged frolic? Had a party for two? Or three, if you’re particularly lucky? Played twenty toes? Gone heels to Andraste? Stormed the trenches? Threaded the needle? Thrown a log on the fire? Slapped bell-”

“I get it!” Alistair cried as Bodahn roared with laughter. “Well, if you really want to know, you tell me first.”

“You know I have,” Daylen replied. “Ask Zevran. We’ve talked about it.”

“Er, on that note – do you trust him?” Alistair asked.

“Yes, actually,” Daylen admitted. “He's had at least one opportunity to kill me. He and I were in bed, and…” he broke off, flushing slightly behind his beard.

Alistair stared at him in confusion for a moment, before gasping. “You slept with Zevran?”

There was a moment's pause as Daylen looked only slightly guilty. “He was _very_ persuasive.” Alistair gaped at him, and Daylen shrugged. “It wasn't just him, you know. This pirate captain named Isabela was there too.”

Alistair stared at him openmouthed for another moment. “ _That doesn't make it any better_.”

Daylen shrugged. “I came out with everything still attached, so I’m going to count that as a win. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I, myself, never had the…pleasure,” Alistair said, dragging out the last word. “Not that I haven’t thought about it, of course, but…you know.”

The mage raised an eyebrow. “Lack of opportunities, or are you one of those men who don’t rush into things?”

The warrior looked uncomfortable. “Well, living in the Chantry is…not exactly a life for rambunctious boys. They raised me to be a gentleman. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“Of course not,” Daylen said quickly. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to seem like I was making fun, Alistair.”

“I’ve no urge to rush into anything,” the man replied stiffly. “We may not even survive what is to come, after all.”

The mage looked away. “I’m sorry, Alistair. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine. I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore.”

—ROTG—

That evening, as they made camp, Daylen made a careful inspection of the ground before laying out his bedroll. He heard a throat clearing behind him and winced, before standing up. “Something on your mind, Wynne?”

“I’ve noticed that you set sentries around the camp,” the enchanter said. “Do you think it necessary?”

Daylen blinked in confusion. “Well yes, otherwise anyone else could simply sneak up on us.”

Wynne frowned. “You did learn the camp glyphs at the Circle, did you not?”

“Camp glyphs?” Daylen scratched his beard. “I...wait, weren’t those taught by Enchanter Matthias?”

“Yes, the one who passed away some…” Wynne winced. “It would have been the year before you would have taken those classes. I am sorry, I did not realize.”

“Well, now I’m glad we have you along,” Daylen said, chuckling. “Can you teach me how to set the glyphs?”

Wynne nodded. “They will alert or even wake the caster if they are tripped by anyone. A simple enough spell, invaluable to anyone traveling in a small party.”

“Well, now we don’t have to draw straws to decide who gets to lose sleep,” Daylen mused.

Within a half hour, the camp was surrounded with a layer of warning glyphs. Wynne nodded in satisfaction as she examined Daylen’s spellwork. “These will do. If we were in a more confined area, we could put up actual barrier spells, but that is far more draining and more conspicuous. These will deprive a would-be ambusher of the element of surprise without their knowledge.” Daylen nodded gratefully, and the elderly enchanter strode off.

Daylen examined the glyphs a few moments longer, before turning on his heel and heading back into the camp.

Zevran was finishing off a bowl of stew, mopping up the remnants with a crust of bread. “Do you trust these spells?” the rogue asked, tearing off a hunk of the bread with his teeth.

“The spellwork is sound,” Daylen said. “If you’d like to take it on yourself to set a few traps around the camp, that’s fine by me, but let the others know where you place them.”

The assassin nodded, before swallowing the mouthful of bread and stew and setting the bowl aside. “I’ve a question, if I may.”

“What’s on your mind?” Daylen asked, accepting a bowl of stew and a crust of bread from Leliana with a grateful nod.

“Well, here is the thing,” Zevran replied hesitantly as Daylen dug into his meal. “I swore an oath to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you’re on and this is all very fine and well. My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with. As a point of curiosity.”

“Does your oath expire then?”

“Not precisely. I said I would serve you until you saw fit to release me. One simply assumes that, once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin to follow you about. Am I wrong?”

“I suppose you could leave, if you wanted,” Daylen said quietly.

“Could I?” Zevran replied. “And…if I didn’t wish to leave?”

Daylen blinked in confusion. “Why wouldn’t you go, given the chance? I mean, you signed up with me to prevent people from killing you, and people do seem to enjoy trying to kill me. Why would you stay?”

“How should I know?” Zevran asked with a shrug. “I cannot see the future. What if I liked it here? What if we became fond of each other, hmm? Stranger things have happened.”

“Well, I imagine I wouldn’t need an _assassin_ , no,” Daylen said slowly. “A friend, though? I could always use a friend.”

“Indeed?” Zevran asked. “I might even be glad to call myself such, come to think of it.”

Daylen looked down at his food again, hiding his smile. “You’re a better person than you think, Zevran. I already count you as a friend.”

“It is good to know what my options might be,” Zevran said, retrieving a satchel from his gear. “But that is for another time. For now, I have much to do, yes? I would not trust our safety to magic alone.”

As the elf strode off, Alistair sat down, rubbing his face. “How’s the stew?”

Daylen swallowed a mouthful of food. “Even if she weren’t good in a fight, Leliana would be worth keeping around for the skill in cooking alone.”

“You’re too kind,” Leliana said softly as she handed Alistair a bowl.

The warrior looked up in surprise. “Oh. Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.” The rogue smiled softly at him, before pouring out another bowl for Sten.

“Alistair, I want to ask a favor,” Daylen said, downing the last of his stew. “I don’t expect you to say yes, but I’ll try anyway.”

“If you want my first-born, that may be an issue,” Alistair replied dryly.

Daylen snorted, setting the bowl down. “Can you teach others to be a Templar?”

“Others, yes, but not yourself,” Alistair said.

Daylen blinked in confusion. “I…well, I didn’t mean _me_ , but alright. Can I ask why not? Is it something to do with having magic in the first place?”

“Not exactly,” Alistair replied. “I need someone who’s trained first as a warrior. It’s as much about discipline as anything.” Daylen nodded in understanding, and Alistair shrugged. “I guess if I’m going to give up Chantry secrets, I may as well go all the way. Send whoever you want trained to me in camp, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Daylen nodded. “Thank you. Would be very useful if we encounter any other mage-related problems. I suppose for now Sten is the only one you could pass these abilities to, unless…” he glanced over at Cupcake, who was eyeing Alistair’s bowl of stew. “I don’t suppose…”

“No, I can’t teach your dog to be a Templar.” Alistair looked to Leliana as she sat down with a bowl of stew. “How about you, Leliana? You have any skills you could pass along?”

The rogue looked uncomfortable. “I suppose. I don’t think either of you have the correct…aptitude, however. I could give you some pointers, though. You may be able to pass them on to someone you know. We would have to step away from the others, however. For safety, yes? I expect there would be daggers flying about willy-nilly for a time.”

Daylen looked over at Alistair. “Well, I suppose that would sound like a fun time. I _was_ learning to juggle back at the Circle. They wouldn’t let us have knives, though.” As the warrior shook his head, grinning around a mouthful of stew, Daylen turned to look at the bard. “I appreciate your willingness to share your skills.”

“If it means we stand a better chance,” Leliana said, “I’d be glad to help.”

Daylen stroked his beard, grumbling as he felt the gaps in it. Standing up, he grabbed his empty bowl. “Thanks for the stew, Leliana.”

“Where are you off to?” Alistair asked.

“Going to go bother Morrigan,” Daylen said.

—ROTG—

_History of the Circle  
It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing is more successful at inspiring a person to mischief as being told not to do something. Unfortunately, the Chantry of the Divine Age had some trouble with obvious truths. Although it did not outlaw magic--quite the contrary, as the Chantry relied upon magic to kindle the eternal flame which burns in every brazier in every chantry--it relegated mages to lighting candles and lamps. Perhaps occasional dusting of rafters and eaves._

_I will give my readers a moment to contemplate how well such a role satisfied the mages of the time._

_It surprised absolutely no one when the mages of Val Royeaux, in protest, snuffed the sacred flames of the cathedral and barricaded themselves inside the choir loft. No one, that is, but Divine Ambrosia II, who was outraged and attempted to order an Exalted March upon her own cathedral. Even her most devout Templars discouraged that idea. For 21 days, the fires remained unlit while negotiations were conducted, legend tells us, by shouting back and forth from the loft._

_The mages went cheerily into exile in a remote fortress outside of the capital, where they would be kept under the watchful eye of the Templars and a council of their own elder magi. Outside of normal society, and outside of the Chantry, the mages would form their own closed society, the Circle, separated for the first time in human history._

_\--From Of Fires, Circles, and Templars: A History of Magic in the Chantry, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	11. Onwards and Southwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group makes for Redcliffe. Hilarity ensues.

_Par Vollen: The Occupied North  
In the 30th year of the Steel Age, the first Qunari ships were sighted off the coast of Par Vollen in the far north, marking the beginning of a new age of warfare._

_History calls this the First Qunari War, but it was mostly a one-sided bloodbath, with the Qunari advancing far into the mainland. Qunari warriors in glittering steel armor carved through armies with ease. Their cannons, the likes of which our ancestors had never seen, reduced city walls to rubble in a matter of seconds._

_Stories of Qunari occupation vary greatly. It is said they dismantled families and sent captives to “learning camps” for indoctrination into their religion. Those who refused to cooperate disappeared to mines or construction camps._

_For every tale of suffering, however, there is another of enlightenment deriving from something called the “Qun.” This is either a philosophical code or a written text that governs all aspects of Qunari life, perhaps both. One converted Seheran reported pity for those who refused to embrace the Qun, as if the conquerors had led him to a sort of self-discovery. “For all my life, I followed the Maker wherever his path led me,” he wrote, “but in the Qun I have found the means to travel my own path.”_

_It has been said that the most complete way to wipe out a people is not with blades but with books. Thankfully, a world that had repelled four Blights would not easily bow to a foreign aggressor. And so the Exalted Marches began._

_The greatest advantage of the Chantry-led forces was the Circle of Magi. For all their technology, the Qunari appeared to harbor great hatred for magic. Faced with cannons, the Chantry responded with lightning and balls of fire._

_The Qunari armies lacked the sheer numbers of humanity. So many were slain at Marnas Pell, on both sides, that the Veil is said to be permanently sundered, the ruins still plagued by restless corpses. But each year, the Chantry pushed further and further into the Qunari lines, although local converts to the Qun proved difficult to return to Andraste's teachings._

_By the end of the Storm Age, the Qunari were truly pushed back. Rivain was the only human land that retained the Qunari religion after being freed, and its rulers attempted to barter a peace. Most human lands signed the Llomerryn Accord, excepting the Tevinter Imperium. It is a shaky peace that has lasted to this day._

_—From The Exalted Marches: An Examination of Chantry Warfare, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

—ROTG—

The mage announced his approach with a polite cough, and the witch looked up, shaking her hair out of her eyes. “How are you this evening?” Daylen asked, wondering how she managed to look graceful doing such a simple action.

“I have a thought,” Morrigan said after a moment, standing up. “We have an opportunity that I believe we should take advantage of.” At Daylen’s questioning look, she went on. “To the point: my mother was once divested of a particular grimoire by a most annoying Templar hunter. It occurred long before I was born, but even today Flemeth speaks of the loss with great rage.”

“Wait, wait, _wait,_ ” Daylen interrupted. “A Templar managed to anger your mother – the woman who hunts Templars for sport – _and live_?”

After a pause, Morrigan shrugged. “Everyone has bad days.” Daylen burst out laughing, and Morrigan went on. “With the Circle of Magi in such disarray, it occurs to me that this might be the perfect time to recover the tome from their possession, for surely it eventually ended up in their hands.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Daylen said uneasily. “The Templars don’t typically let texts seized from hedge mages or apostates circulate amongst the Circles. Encourages outside thinking. They don’t like that much. What makes you think they’d still have this book?”

“Flemeth is a sorceress of legend, is she not? And her grimoire would be more than a mere curiosity to mages that daren’t even glance toward the places my mother has walked for eons. No doubt ‘tis considered something dangerous, perhaps best locked away somewhere dark, yes? And if not, then at least I know it does not exist. But there is no harm in looking, surely.”

“And this grimoire, being suited to your particular style of magic, would be incredibly useful,” Daylen surmised. Morrigan nodded. “And I imagine it has some of your mother’s secrets in it, things she might not have told you.”

“Very perceptive,” Morrigan agreed. “Mother has assumed for a long time that the tome was lost forever. I would like the chance to recover it.”

Daylen looked over his shoulder in the direction of the tower. “You bring this up now?”

“It did not occur to me earlier,” Morrigan replied crossly. “I wish it had. Would it not be easier to secure such an item, with the tower in the state that it is?”

Daylen sighed. “Very well. Next time I’m in there, I’ll look for it.”

“Good. It is a leather-bound tome, adorned with a leafless tree on the front.” Morrigan frowned as Daylen burst out laughing. “You take amusement at this?”

“Oh, Morrigan, how lucky you are,” Daylen said, a grin stretching his features. “Is there some sort of bonus for fast delivery?” At the witch’s baffled look, Daylen held up a finger, trotting over to his bedroll and fishing a book out of his gear. Golden eyes widened as Morrigan almost reverently took the book, her lips parting slightly. Daylen noticed her pupils blowing wide and wondered if he had managed to turn the witch on.

“You found Flemeth’s grimoire? You had it already?”

“Look, anything that the First Enchanter has in his office in a locked chest with three kinds of glyphs that I’ve never seen protecting it? It’s worth stealing. His office was ransacked anyway; I’d be amazed if he connected it to me.”

“When I spoke of it to you, I did not truly hope…ah, but this is a most fortuitous event!” The witch looked up from the grimoire, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

And it was that point that Daylen realized he was in trouble. He felt his body relax, a faint smile pushing forward and making his beard twitch as Morrigan looked back towards the book. Shaking himself, he blinked hard, bringing himself back to the moment. “Glad to help.”

“You have my deepest thanks,” she said softly.

Daylen waved her off as Cupcake trotted over, nosing his hand. “Consider it a repayment of a debt.”

The witch raised an eyebrow. “If you speak of my assisting my mother in healing your wounds, I consider that debt repaid after the incident in the Brecelian Forest.”

“Oh, no, not that,” Daylen replied. “Although, I am grateful for that. It's just that when I was stuck in my nightmare, the thing that snapped me out of it was the memory of a pair of golden eyes. And I've only ever met two people with such eyes.”

Morrigan sighed in dismay. “Oh, do you not fancy my mother?”

Daylen snorted. “Unfortunately…or fortunately, I suppose, I prefer my Witches of the Wild younger and less gray than that.”

“What a shame. I shall be very disappointed to tell my mother of this.”

“You’re a handful on your own,” Daylen chuckled. “Your mother would be a terror.”

Morrigan’s face darkened. “Would you prefer if I were more supportive? More submissive? More _tame_?”

Daylen shuddered. “Please, no. A wild, untamed woman is _far_ more fun to be around than some meek thing with a broken spirit.” He scratched his beard in thought. “Now, that doesn’t apply to horses, but that’s a _completely_ different kind of riding. At least, I hope it is…” Morrigan laughed in spite of herself, and Daylen smiled at the small victory. “Morrigan, if I wanted everyone to agree with everything I said, I’d be a Templar. I expect people to disagree with me. It’s a fact of life. If everyone agrees with what you’re saying or doing, they don’t know what you’re doing. The trick is convincing them that they should be working with you anyway, no matter how odd it seems.”

A brief cloud passed over Morrigan’s face, before she spoke. “Which leads me to another thought. Exactly how many are required to gain such knowledge of untamed women?”

“You’re asking me how many people I’ve rutted with?” Daylen replied.

“A rather crude way of putting it, but ‘tis accurate.”

Daylen scratched his beard. “I don’t particularly keep count. Round numbers, at best. You want the number of women, the number of men, or the total?”

“You enjoy the company of both?”

Daylen waggled his eyebrows at her. “At the same time, when I can get it, but yes. It may have been a prison, but the Circle had no shortage of willing partners.”

“Suddenly the ease with which those mages accept their fate makes more sense,” Morrigan mused. “I have but one more question, for tonight. What is it you’re hiding in that belt pouch?”

Daylen’s beard twitched as he reached into it. “I knew you would ask about that eventually.” Carefully retrieving the item from the pouch, he held out the necklace. “A little gift.” Several strands of silver chain wound together, forming an exquisitely-made necklace. Morrigan’s eyes dilated, and she took the necklace gently, turning the jewelry over in her hands and watching as it caught the firelight.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Why?”

“It’s a gift. It’s not given with the expectation of receiving anything in return.”

“Everyone wants something for a gift,” Morrigan snapped. “Why are you giving me this?”

Daylen smiled faintly. “Maybe someday you’ll figure it out. In the meantime, should you continue to make your camp separate from ours, nobody is going to insist otherwise. But if you continue to distrust us, that's a problem. I know it isn't easy.”

“What do you know of mistrust?”

Daylen's face twisted. “The night I left the Circle, my best friend deceived me. He was fleeing the Rite of Tranquility, which I had no problem with. But when cornered, he revealed he had been practicing blood magic.”

“A pity to see a mage of your power so indoctrinated about such magics,” Morrigan sniffed.

Daylen rolled his eyes. “I didn't care about his using blood magic. Jowan was never the type to hurt someone unless he absolutely had to. I cared that he had outright lied to me about it.”

“I see,” Morrigan replied after a moment. ”I have a wonder, if you will indulge me. What do you think of our chances of success?”

“If I were a betting man – and I am – I wouldn’t put money on us. We're not exactly heavy on numbers or resources,” Daylen said dryly. “It's just me and a handful of other would-be heroes. Just trying to end this Blight.”

“Seven misfits true, but you and I could end this Blight ourselves if we had to.”

Daylen grunted. “You clearly have more faith in our abilities than I do. But hopefully Arl Eamon can offer some level of assistance once we figure out what's going on over there.” He paused a moment. “And we're eight misfits. Don't forget Cupcake.” He scratched the canine in question behind the ears, the dog's tongue lolling out.

Morrigan sighed. “Yes, let us not forget the flea-ridden mongrel.”

Daylen frowned. “He'd better not have fleas. He's crawled into my tent a couple times when it’s been cold.”

“Perhaps you should consider a bath,” Morrigan offered dryly, a smile tugging at her lips. “For him as well as yourself.”

After giving himself an experimental sniff, the mage nodded. “Goodness, I still stink like demonic ichor. Yes, a bath is definitely in order.”

“There was a stream not far in that direction,” the witch noted, pointing over her shoulder.

“Just promise not to peek,” Daylen said with a wink. “The streams around here are rather chilly.”

“Yes, Warden, I promise not to witness your inadequacies,” Morrigan said, rolling her eyes.

“You wound me, Morrigan,” Daylen replied, pouting. “I thought I proved myself adequate when I turned Uldred into paste.”

“That was impressive magic,” Morrigan allowed. “Perhaps the Circle is not as incompetent at producing capable mages as I thought.”

Daylen’s eyes widened. “Careful, Morrigan, that was dangerously close to being amenable.”

“Take it how you will,” the witch replied dismissively. “For now,” she hefted the tome, “again, you have my thanks. I will begin study of the tome immediately. I do _not_ intend to squander this opportunity to learn more than Flemeth wished me to know. This should be…interesting.”

—ROTG—

“Alistair,” Daylen began the next day as they pulled the wagon onto the highway, heading south towards Redcliffe. “What changes about you after the Joining?”

“You mean other than becoming a Grey Warden?”

Daylen gave his friend an irritated look. “I mean what changes physically. You’ve been a Grey Warden longer than I have, after all.”

The warrior grunted. “You know, I asked Duncan this, too, and all I got was a ‘you’ll see.’”

“Six months in and he hadn’t told you?” Daylen asked incredulously. “What was he waiting for, Satinalia?”

“It’s not that Duncan wants to keep it a secret,” Alistair said defensively. “It’s just that the Grey Wardens don’t discuss it much. I gather it’s not a pleasant topic. The first change I noticed was an increase in appetite. I used to get up in the middle of the night and raid the castle larder. I thought I was starving. I’d slurp down every dinner like it was my last, my face all covered in gravy. When I’d look up, the other Grey Wardens would stare, and then laugh themselves to tears.”

Daylen scratched at one of the burned patches in his beard. “I haven’t felt anything like that.”

“Really?” Alistair asked skeptically. “I saw you eating dinner the other day. Savage.”

Daylen thought for a moment, trying to find a mature response. “Yes, well…” Inhaling, he belched.

“Ah, yes,” Alistair said. “The classy camaraderie of two men traveling out in the open. I take it you were like this before the Joining, then?” Daylen shrugged, and the warrior shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. “It’s not all funny, though. There were the nightmares. Duncan said it was part of how we sense the darkspawn. We tap into their…” he shrugged. “I don’t know what you’d call it. Their ‘group mind.’ And when we sleep, it’s worse. You learn to block it out after a while, but at first it’s hard. It’s supposed to be worse for those who Join during a Blight. How is it for you?”

Daylen felt a sour taste in his mouth as he thought back to the previous night. “Nightmares? Yes, I know what you mean. Being a mage, it’s nothing too unusual – we have to deal with demons prodding at us at night all the time. But I have to say, a Desire demon is a lot more attractive than a hurlock.”

“Some people never have trouble,” Alistair said. “That’s rare. Some have trouble sleeping for the rest of their lives. It all ends the same, though.” He paused, looking worried.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me another thing I wish I’d known before the Joining?” Daylen asked.

“Because once you reach a certain age, the real nightmares come. That’s how a Grey Warden knows his time has come.” At Daylen’s confused look, Alistair gave him a mirthless smile. “Oh, that’s right. We never had time to tell you that part, did we? Well, in addition to all the other wonderful things about being a Grey Warden, you don’t need to worry about dying from old age. You’ve got thirty years to live. Give or take. The Taint…it’s a death sentence. Ultimately your body won’t be able to take it. When the time comes, most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar and die in battle rather than…waiting. It’s tradition.”

“Well, that’s cheery. Why Orzammar?”

“They’re never short of darkspawn, except during a Blight. And you wondered why we kept the Joining a secret from the new recruits! There you have it.”

“Well, I never expected to die of old age anyway,” Daylen mused. “I’m a mage. It’s a rather hazardous existence. For most, it seems like it would be a high price to pay.”

“I suppose it is,” Alistair allowed. “We’re the only ones who can stop the Blight, however. Is there a price too high to pay for that?” Daylen didn’t reply, and the two Wardens fell silent for a few moments before Alistair went on. “You know, Duncan…he had started having the nightmares again. He told me that. In private. He said it wouldn’t be long before he’d go to Orzammar himself. I guess he got what he wanted. I just wish it had been something worthy of him.”

“He will be remembered, Alistair,” Daylen promised. “As will the others.”

“I know. Ending the Blight…should make this all worthwhile, right?”

“Should,” Daylen replied.

“If you two are so undedicated to your task, we are truly doomed,” Morrigan chimed in from the back of the wagon, her nose buried in Flemeth’s grimoire.

“Morrigan, I swear-”

“Stop, both of you,” Daylen sighed. “There’s been enough infighting. If you two can’t get along, I _will_ swat you both on the nose.” Shaking his head, he bit into a piece of jerky. “Anyway. Morrigan, I’ve been meaning to ask – did you grow up in the Wilds?”

“Why do you ask me such questions?” The witch said irritably. “I do not probe you for pointless information, do I?”

Daylen shrugged. “Fine, I’ll leave you be.”

“I did not ask to be left alone,” Morrigan replied, a little too quickly. “I simply wondered from whence comes this strange curiosity.”

“Well, I’ve annoyed Alistair with questions already, as well as Leliana,” Daylen said dryly. “We don’t need to be strangers, do we?”

“What a stranger does not know cannot hurt him.”

“Well _that’s_ just not true,” Daylen muttered.

“Have it your way,” Morrigan sighed. “What is it you asked? If I ‘grew up’ in the Wilds?” Daylen nodded. “A curious question. Where else would you picture me?”

“I ask because your choice of words isn’t much like any other person’s I’ve met,” Daylen said. “Did you meet many people?”

“For many years, it was simply Flemeth and I. The Wilds and its creatures were more real to me than Flemeth’s tales of the world of man. In time, I grew curious. I left the Wilds to explore what lay beyond. Never for long. Brief forays into a civilized wilderness.”

“A place as strange to you as the Wilds were to us,” Daylen said softly. “You kept going back to the Wilds?”

“Would you not do the same? Your world is an unforgiving and cold place. The Wilds I hail from is home to me, and I a natural denizen. For all that I had been taught, however, the truth of the civilized lands proved to be…overwhelming. I was unfamiliar with so much. So confident and bold was I, yet there was much that Flemeth could never have prepared me for.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “Very daring. Sounds like you.”

The witch laughed quietly. “Equal parts daring and foolhardy, perhaps. Only once was I accused of being a Witch of the Wilds, and that was by a Chasind who happened to be traveling with a merchant caravan. He pointed and gasped and began shouting in his strange language, and most assumed he was casting some curse upon me. I acted the terrified girl, and naturally he was arrested.”

“Quick thinking.”

“Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman: one, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive. I played the weakling and batted my eyelashes at the captain of the guard. Child’s play.”

Daylen snickered. “Well, I never threw another apprentice under the wagon at the Circle, but I was usually the one who got tasked with talking the Templars into believing that no, we weren’t just doing something against the rules.”

“The point being that I was able to move through human lands fairly easily. Whatever humans think a Witch of the Wilds looks like, ‘tis not I.” The woman paused, before continuing, clearly uneasy. “Not that I did not have trouble. There are things about human society which have always puzzled me. Such as the touching. Why all the touching for a simple greeting?”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Touching? Like a handshake?”

“To begin with, yes,” Morrigan said, seizing upon the example. “What is the point of touching my hand? I find it an offensive intrusion.”

“Well, I actually know the origins of the gesture,” Daylen admitted. “Clasping hands was a way of showing you didn’t have a knife up your sleeve. Meant as a sign that you were there to conduct yourself honestly.”

Morrigan blinked, before continuing. “There were many nuances that Flemeth could never tell me of. When to look into another’s eyes, how to eat at a table, how to bargain without offending…none of these things I knew. I still do not understand it all, truth be told, but then I gave up long ago any hope of doing so. When I returned to the Wilds last, I swore to Flemeth that I had no intention of leaving again.”

“To be fair, I don’t particularly know how to bargain with merchants myself. Wasn’t common at the Circle,” Daylen said. “Yet here you are.”

“Yes,” the witch said softly. “Here I am.”

—ROTG—

The group took the West Road from Kinloch Hold, hooking around the north of Lake Calenhad to avoid passing Lothering, before heading south for Redcliffe. Days passed as the troupe moved down the Imperial Highway, fending off the odd bandit attack and avoiding checkpoints from Loghain’s troops. A few unavoidable incidents left the group bloodied but victorious, and Bodahn promised to sell the looted equipment in separate places in order to avoid arousing suspicion.

Alistair was wiping the blood from his sword with a sour look on his face when Daylen walked over, healing a nasty cut on his shoulder that a stray arrow had given him. “What’s wrong?” the Warden asked.

“These men didn’t need to die,” Alistair said softly, sheathing his blade. “If Loghain hadn’t turned them against us…” He looked at Daylen, frowning harshly. “How many more will we need to kill?”

“Too many,” Daylen replied, crouching and checking the corpse at Alistair’s feet. Closing the dead man’s eyes, he sighed. “It’s already been too many.” The warrior shook his head, walking away as Wynne approached Daylen.

“What a waste,” the enchanter said.

“Was just discussing that with Alistair. Neither of us enjoys killing, as you might guess.” He pocketed the dead soldier’s coin purse. “We’ve got darkspawn swarming all over the south of this country and that horse’s arse has us fighting each other.”

“I must ask,” Wynne replied slowly. “What does being a Grey Warden mean to you?”

Daylen thought for a moment. “Means I’ve been chosen to do something important. Killing as many darkspawn as possible before they get the chance to hurt someone.” He stood up, shaking his head. “When I’ve been allowed to _do my job_ , that is.”

“There’s that, of course, but there’s more to being a Grey Warden than killing darkspawn and saving the world from the Blight.” Daylen blinked in confusion, but Wynne went on before he could protest. “Ultimately, being a Grey Warden is about serving others, about serving all people, whether elves or dwarves or men. As a Grey Warden you are a guardian of men. And you guard them because their continued existence is more important than you are. Thus it is you who serves, not they.”

The Warden stared at her for a moment. “No. No it is not about serving all people. The Wardens bow to no one. And _yes_ , it _is_ all about killing darkspawn and stopping the Blight. That is our single and sole purpose. I have that on the authority of Duncan. You remember, the man who commanded the Wardens in this country?”

“Be that as it may,” Wynne insisted. “Your actions do have an effect on the people around you.” Seeing Daylen’s glare, the mage shrugged. “But I’ve lectured enough for today. I should stop before I wear out my welcome.”

“Right. Gather the bodies, salvage what equipment we can, and let’s move on.”

—ROTG—

“Daylen, you got fleas or something?” Alistair asked as Daylen scratched his neck again. The skin was already feeling raw, but the itch continued. “You did fall in that bush back there. Maybe you should have stayed with the wagon, let the rest of us scout the path.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Just got a bad feeling,” the mage grunted, turning a corner and glancing up the path. “I feel like we’re being watched. My neck prickles.”

“And is this feeling reliable?” Leliana asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Well, the last two times I felt this were when we met Morrigan, and when the Dalish made contact with us,” Daylen said.

“Get down!” Zevran cried, tackling Leliana to the ground. A barrage of arrows landed where she had been standing a moment later, and Daylen ducked as a fireball landed a few feet away from the party, knocking Sten and Morrigan off their feet. Alistair shoved Daylen aside as another flurry of arrows snapped past, catching a pair of them on his shield and deflecting another off his bracer.

“Leliana!” Daylen bellowed, pointing at a woman carrying a staff that had lightning crackling along its length. “Take out that mage!” The archer rolled to her feet as Zevran drew his own bow, the two rogues ducking another clutch of arrows and returning fire, the enemy mage’s spell dissipating as Leliana’s arrow speared through her neck. Zevran’s arrow pinged off the plate armor of a charging mercenary, and Sten snarled as he pushed himself to his feet, drawing his greatsword. It was only as Sten charged at the armored mercenary and they crossed blades that Daylen realized just how large the other mercenary really was. Then Sten shortened his opponent by a head, and the corpse collapsed as blood spattered Sten’s gleaming armor.

Leliana had dropped another two men by the time Alistair, Sten, and Zevran engaged the remaining mercenaries, charging up the path with Sten leading the way.

“Morrigan, you all right?” Daylen asked, checking the witch over. The woman stared at him groggily as he rolled her onto her back, dazed from the fireball. A trickle of blood ran from a nasty scrape on her forehead, and Wynne fell into a defensive stance in front of them, a burst of frost collecting around her staff and freezing the armored leader of the band.

“I am fine,” the witch insisted, trying to stand and weaving drunkenly. “I need no assistance.”

“You’re injured,” Daylen argued. “Let me heal that.”

“If you insist,” Morrigan groused. Daylen clicked his fingers, a spark of healing magic jumping from his fingertips to Morrigan’s forehead. The scrape closed, and Morrigan’s eyes cleared as she scrubbed at the blood on her forehead. “I…” she shook her head. “Thank you.”

Daylen nodded in response, before peering over Morrigan’s shoulder. “Bollocks. Get down!” Yanking her down, Daylen kicked Wynne in the back of the knee, dropping all three mages to the ground as another clutch of arrows zipped past. “I think it’s time we joined the fight, don’t you?”

“Agreed,” Wynne groaned from the ground.

By the time the three mages got themselves back to their feet and ready to engage, the others had wiped out all but one of the mercenaries. Their leader was facedown in the dirt, trembling as Cupcake growled at him. The man’s helmet had been knocked off and his sword hand was twisted behind him and clutched between the hound’s mighty jaws.

“Got a live one, boy?” Daylen asked. The dog _whuffed_ around the limb in his mouth, and Daylen gave a tight smile. “Well, since you’ve got yourself the chew toy, take your time with him.”

“Stop,” Leliana said suddenly, looking at the bodies more closely. “Don’t kill him.” Cupcake tilted his head, the mercenary leader groaning as his arm bent at a painful angle.

“What?” Daylen asked. “Why not?”

“He is no common bandit,” Leliana declared, grabbing one of the nearby corpses and hauling it over. “None of them were. Look at them. Their weapons and armor are of fine make, and they were well-trained.”

Daylen looked at the body, before examining the survivor more closely. “I…Maker’s breath, you’re right!”

Leliana knelt, grabbing the man by the hair and jerking his head up to look him in the eye. “You know what I am talking about, don’t you? Who are you?”

The man coughed as his neck stretched. “Someone who regrets taking you on. Was told it would be an easy job.” He looked her in the eyes. “Kill the little red-haired girl, deal with the others as we pleased.”

“Wait, you’re after Leliana?” Daylen asked. “I…” He blinked. “Wow. I’m so used to being the target of attempts on my life that I’m not sure how to deal with this.”

Zevran shrugged. “It does happen from time to time.”

“You came to kill me?” Leliana asked. “Why? Who sent you?”

“It don’t pay to ask why someone wants someone else dead. I just need to know what to do, and where to get my money.”

Daylen laughed. “Boy, did _you_ take the wrong contract. Two Grey Wardens, an Orlesian bard, an Antivan Crow, a Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi, a _Witch of the fucking Wilds_ , and one of the Qunari's finest.” The Warden shook his head. “Not very smart. I hope you got paid well, at least.”

“Ha, money!” The man scoffed. “I’ll be lucky to get away with my life, it seems.” He smiled weakly at Daylen. “Maybe we could work something out?”

“You going to recruit him as well?” Zevran asked. “Or do you not make a habit of recruiting people who tried to kill you.”

“Speak quickly,” Leliana ordered.

“I’ve no real quarrel with you,” the man said. “Wasn’t me that wanted you dead, but I know how you can find the one who does. I have some directions written down on how to get to the house. The house is in Denerim. The directions are in my belt. It’s the best I can do.”

“Your life for information, then,” Leliana pronounced.

“I think you can do better,” Daylen interrupted.

“What?” the man asked. “What else could I do?”

“You’re going to need work,” the Warden answered. “And we’re building an army to fight the darkspawn. Take the road north, around Lake Calenhad. When you get to Kinloch Hold, wait there. A group of mages will be leaving there and heading to Redcliffe. I expect you to help ensure their safe arrival.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” the man said. Daylen nodded to Cupcake, and the man winced as his arm was released, bringing it around front of him and working his aching shoulder. “I’ll just…be on my way, then.”

As the man left, Leliana looked pensive. “Marjolaine. It has to be.”

“Who’s Marjolaine?” Daylen asked. Leliana gave him a pained look, and Daylen sighed. “Look, if this person is trying to have you killed, it’s important.”

Leliana sighed. “You’re right, of course. Can we speak in private?” The two stepped away from the rest of the group, Cupcake following closely. “This is going to take a moment, so please, bear with me. My mother was from Denerim, and I consider myself a Fereldan. Mother served an Orleisan noblewoman who lived here when Orlais ruled. When Orlais was defeated and the common folk began to resent the presence of any Orlesian, the lady returned to Orlais. She took my mother with her. I was born in Orlais, and did not set foot in Ferelden until much later. Mother was always telling stories of her homeland, I think she missed it. She died when I was very young, and the lady – Lady Cecilie – let me stay with her. I had no one else. She was quite old then, and she had me study music and dance to entertain her.” The bard shook her head. “Strangely, the only thing I really remember of my mother was her scent. She kept dried flowers in her closet, amongst her clothes. Small, white Fereldan wildflowers with a sweet fragrance. Mother called them Andraste’s Grace. They were very rare in Orlais.”

“Leliana,” Daylen said gently. “You were going someplace with this?”

“I came to Ferelden and the Chantry because I was being hunted, in Orlais.”

“Hunted? What for?”

“I was framed,” Leliana said softly. “Betrayed. By someone I thought I knew and could trust. Marjolaine – she was my mentor…and friend. She taught me the bardic arts – how to enchant with words and song, to carry myself like a high-born lady, to blend in as a servant. The skills I used to serve her, my bard-master, because I loved her, and because I enjoyed what I did.”

“She was a bard as well?”

“She claimed to have retired,” Leliana said defensively. “She married a noble and inherited his wealth when he died. To many, she was just a rich widow.”

Daylen stared at her. “Leliana, you’re a storyteller! You _know_ nobody is ever just a rich widow!”

“I thought I knew her. My devotion to her blinded me to her...less than noble attributes. You can say it was my fault.” The words began to come faster as the rogue rushed through her confession. “There was a man I was sent to kill. I was to bring Marjolaine everything he carried. I don’t know who this man was. She gave me a name and a description, and I hunted him down. I found documents on his body – sealed documents.” She gave Daylen a weak smile. “My curiosity got the better of me. Something told me that I needed to know what was in those letters. Marjolaine had been selling all kinds of information about Orlais to other countries. Nevarra, and Antiva, among others. It was treason.”

“Isn’t that what bards do?” Daylen asked pointedly.

“Some do,” Leliana admitted. “But I had always assumed Marjolaine only operated within Orlais. This was an unhappy surprise for me. My life as a bard taught me that my loyalties should be kept fluid. My concern was not that she was a traitor, but that her life would be in danger if she was caught. Orlais has been at war with so many countries. It takes a harsh view of such things…as I later discovered.”

“Most countries don’t appreciate treason,” Daylen said slowly. “What happened?”

“I should have left well enough alone,” Leliana replied bitterly. “But I didn’t. I had to tell Marjolaine I feared for her life. She brushed aside my concern. She admitted her guilt, but said it was in the past. That is why the documents had to be destroyed, she said.”

“I’m guessing things didn’t work out that way.”

“I believed her. I kept believing, up until the moment they showed me the documents, altered by her hand to make _me_ look the traitor.”

Daylen winced. “They?”

“The Orlesians guards. They captured me.” Leliana’s voiced cracked, and Daylen put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Did terrible things to make me confess and reveal my conspirators. It was a traitor’s punishment I endured, and at the end of it, all that awaited me was eternity in an unmarked grave.” Cupcake nosed at her hand, and the bard forced a smile as she scratched the dog behind the ears.

“Clearly you didn’t wind up there,” Daylen said. “How’d you get out?”

“The skills Marjolaine taught me were good for something, at least. I broke free when I saw the opportunity. I did not seek Marjolaine out. If she thought I was coming for her, she would have me caught again.”

“So you came to Ferelden, to Lothering,” Daylen said. “A little out-of-the-way village.”

“I was tempted to confront her,” Leliana admitted. “I was furious, betrayed, _scorned_ , but what could I do against her? And so I fled to Ferelden, to the Chantry, and the Maker. Ferelden protected my person, and the Maker saved my soul.  And I found peace, for a time. And then I found you.”

“And you took up your weapons again to help Alistair and me against the Blight,” Daylen said. “Leliana, you’re not a bad person. You’re doing a noble thing, here, helping us. Thank you for trusting me with this.” The mage scratched at his beard, idly lamenting the long stretch between proper baths. “If it’s been so long, why would she come after you now?”

“Maybe someone saw me, maybe she’s finally found me and wants to finish what she started.”

“Makes sense,” Daylen said with a shrug. “But one question remains.”

“What do we do now?” Leliana guessed. “I do not know.”

“We should go to Denerim, to confront her,” Daylen replied. “Otherwise she’ll just keep sending assassins.”

“Perhaps it’s time to settle this score for good,” Leliana conceded. “She needs to answer for what she’s done to me. If we are ever in Denerim, I would like to seek her out.”

“We’ll go as soon as possible,” Daylen assured her. “We’ll find her. And we’ll do what we have to do.”

“You are…very kind, to help me like this,” Leliana said.

Daylen sighed. “Leliana, I promised Morrigan’s mother that as long as she was with me, I would keep Morrigan safe. The same goes for you, for Sten, for Alistair, for Zevran,” he reached down to pat Cupcake on the head, “and for the furball here.”

“ _Whuff!_ ”

“Now, let’s get to Redcliffe. I get the feeling we’ll have a whole new bushel of problems to deal with there.”

—ROTG—

"Do you really expect that detour to have been worth it?" Alistair asked as they came back down the trail. "All that way for a golem control rod - not even a golem, just the rod?"

"Look, if we can retrieve it, that would be a big help," Daylen replied. "It might be worth it. We'll have to head into the mountains anyway, to get to Orzammar."

"I suppose," Alistair sighed.

“Besides, it was free,” Daylen said, spinning the control rod around his hand - and dropping it. Kneeling, he picked the rod out of the dirt.

“What in the-” Alistair peered ahead. Daylen looked up, spotting a large crater with a trail of smoke ahead, and two peasants peering into the hole.

“How did a child survive that?” the woman asked. “The crater is still smoking.”

The man shrugged, cradling an infant swaddled in blue fabric. “It’s a boy – five fingers, five toes, that’s all that matters to me. The Maker has answered our prayers, love. Let’s go home, Marta, and raise the tyke as our own.”

As the new parents walked away, Zevran looked at Daylen. “Nothing is ever ordinary with you people, is it.”

“I wish I could say that’s not true,” Daylen sighed. “Let’s just move on, shall we?”

“Not yet,” Alistair said, hopping over the edge of the crater and sliding down the slope. “There’s some ore here.”

“And this benefits us how?” Daylen asked, scratching his head.

“Such ores are typically very good for making blades,” Leliana explained. “A fine weapon could be made from such ore, if we could find a blacksmith with the skill to forge with it. If nothing else, it would be very valuable to the right people.”

—ROTG—

“Have any idea where we are?” Alistair asked.

Daylen cocked his head as he stared at the map. “Sort of. You know…If you squint, Lake Calenhad looks like a bunny.” Leliana hissed a warning, and the mage looked over. “Eh?” Zevran grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him down into a crouch. “What’s going on?” the man whispered.

Leliana pointed down the hill. “Down there. Those men have the colors of Bann Loren. A minor lord well-known for the fluidity of his allegiances.”

Daylen peered at the men gathered by the stream below. The men wearing Loren’s colors were outfitted mostly in leathers, surrounding a single man. Words were being exchanged, but the loner looked distinctly uneasy. “Alistair, do you recognize that other bloke?”

“Ostagar,” Alistair replied. “He was part of the honor guard of King Cailan.”

“Long way from home,” Daylen murmured, moments before one of the patrol drew a dagger and sank it into the man’s gut. “Maker’s breath!”

Zevran groaned as one of the men turned, hearing Daylen’s surprised yelp. “And now we have to fight.”

Fortunately, the group had the support of three mages and two archers, as well as the high ground. The group approached slowly, kicking weapons away from the bodies as Daylen knelt next to the stabbed man. “Definitely a member of the honor guard,” Alistair confirmed. “Elric Maraigne. He was a close confidant of the king. A good man, at that.”

The man groaned, and both Wardens jumped. “Goodness, he’s alive,” Daylen said, rather unnecessarily as the man sat up.

“Not for long,” the man groaned, clutching the wound in his gut. “I didn’t expect the Bann’s men to notice my escape so quickly. I tried to hide here in the woods, but there wasn’t time.”

“Let me heal this,” Daylen urged. “I can help you!”

“Leave it,” the man sighed. “It was either this, or die in some darkspawn’s belly, or be hanged as a deserter. You were there in Ostagar. You know how things went.” The man gritted his teeth in pain. “There was no way we could win. Even Cailan, for all his bravado, knew there would be no victory at Ostagar. He entrusted me with the key to the royal arms chest. If anything were to happen to him, he said, it was vital I deliver it to the Wardens.”

“Is this chest important?” Daylen asked. “And do you still have the key?”

“The royal arms chest,” Alistair broke in. “It’s where Cailan kept his father’s sword, the one he always said he’d slay the archdemon with.”

“More than that,” Elric said. “There was a secret compartment where he kept documents concerning his dealings with Empress Celene and the Orlesians.”

“Where’s the key, and where’s the chest?”

“The Maker has a sense of humor, doesn’t he?” Elric asked rhetorically. “I suppose it’s for the best, however. I stashed it in the camp. It’s probably still there.”

“Still there?” Daylen asked incredulously. “You mean, at Ostagar? Where there’s now thousands of bloody darkspawn?”

“The key’s behind a loose stone in the base of a statue,” Elric went on. “I’ll draw a map for you so you’ll know where to search.”

“Work quickly,” Daylen said, rooting around in his satchel and passing over a quill and some vellum.

“You’ll be taking me along, won’t you?” Alistair asked. “Call me sentimental, but I left behind some darkspawn that really deserve a sword through the middle.”

“It is _vital_ that the king’s documents do not fall into the wrong hands,” Elric said, sketching quickly. “As for Maric’s sword, it is too powerful to be pawed at by those monsters. Same goes for the king’s other arms and armor.” He paused briefly, his strength clearly fading. “And…if you happen to find Cailan’s body, see it off. He was our king. He shouldn’t be left to rot amidst the darkspawn’s filth.” He laid back, handing the vellum to Daylen. “Take care. It would have been honorable to die at Ostagar.”

—ROTG—

“We’re getting close to Redcliffe,” Alistair said, surveying the landscape. “Just past that next ridge, I think.”

Daylen peered at the map, looking around. “How can you tell? None of this matches!”

Leliana rolled her eyes, snatching the map out of Daylen’s hand and turning it around, before handing it back. “You’re looking at the wrong end, Warden.”

Daylen looked closer at the map. “Oh, I see.” Out of the corner of his eye, the mage saw Cupcake sat down, putting his paws over his face. He looked over at Alistair. “You sure you don’t want to lead?”

“We are in a great deal of trouble,” Sten muttered. Cupcake whined an agreement.

As the wind shifted, Alistair’s face clouded, and he sniffed the air. “Anyone else smell a dead body?”

“You think we’re in the wrong line of work, that you can identify the smell of a corpse that easily?” Daylen asked.

Alistair shrugged. “It’s a living. When you’re not dying.”

“If there’s bodies nearby, that could mean Redcliffe is worse off than we thought,” Wynne declared. “We should hurry.”

“Actually,” Alistair said suddenly, turning to Daylen, “can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier.”

“If this is about that missing block of cheese last week,” Daylen replied easily, “we figured that out pretty easily.”

Alistair winced. “No, I wish it was, though.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I,” Daylen sighed. “All right, come on. Your turn for the private conversation.” The two stepped away from the group, and turned away from the others. “What’s on your mind?”

Alistair gave him an uneasy look. “I told you before Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?” Daylen nodded. “The reason he did that was because…well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my half-brother, I suppose.”

The Warden blinked in confusion for several seconds. “You’re _Maric’s_ child?” Daylen asked finally. “You don’t think you could have brought this up before?”

“How? When would I say that? ‘Oh, by the way, King Maric had sex with a servant girl and she produced a bastard son. That’s me.” Daylen snorted in spite of himself. “I would have told you, but…it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan’s rule, and so they kept me a secret. I’ve never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it, or they coddled me. Even _Duncan_ kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn’t want you to know, as long as possible. I’m sorry.”

Several puzzle pieces clicked together. “So when Cailan sent you and me to light the signal at Ostagar…”

“He was keeping us both alive, yes,” Alistair finished.

“You should have told me. I can’t believe you _didn’t tell me this_ ,” Daylen said, pacing.

“Look, I said I’m sorry! I know I should have said something. This…it’s never brought me anything but problems. I wish it weren’t even true.”

Daylen stopped pacing, looking at his friend incredulously. “Alistair, are you daft? Why do you think Loghain’s trying so hard to have us killed? It’s not just because we’re Wardens – sure, we can tell the truth of what he did at Ostagar – but because _you are a threat to his rule and to his daughter’s rule_. You have a claim to the throne!”

“I don’t want to be king! I never wanted that!”

“Alistair,” Daylen said slowly. “I know that. You know that. _Loghain does not_. Nor would he believe you, I think, even if we told him. Right now, there is a commoner on the throne of Ferelden and her father, a commoner raised to nobility, acting as regent. It’s highly unlikely that the nobility would accept that. With the death of the Couslands, who would probably be the only other family that the Bannorn would consider accepting as king, the only piece left on the board is you. You may not have a choice in the matter!”

“If there’s an heir to be found, it’s Arl Eamon himself. He’s not of royal blood, but he _is_ Cailan’s uncle…and more importantly, very popular with the people. Though, if he’s really as sick as we’ve heard…” he shook his head. “No, I don’t want to think about that. I really don’t.”

“If nothing else, he’ll try to knock us off simply because you have some sort of claim to the throne. He doesn’t strike me as the type to tolerate any possibility of a future threat.”

“Wonderful,” Alistair said bitterly. “Doesn’t anyone care about what _I_ want?”

“I do,” Daylen said softly. “But they very clearly do not. Else they wouldn’t be trying so hard to murder us. Alistair, I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to – and to be perfectly honest I’m not sure I could. But I do think you could unite this nation. You’re stronger and smarter than you think.”

“Well I don’t want any part of it,” Alistair groused. “I’m no king. I’m a Grey Warden, and I’m the son of a commoner to boot. It was made very clear to me early on that there was no room for me raising any rebellions or such nonsense. And that’s fine by me. At any rate, that’s it. That’s what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it.”

“Are you sure?” Daylen asked sarcastically. “You’re not hiding anything else?”

“Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no, that’s it,” Alistair replied, smiling faintly. “Just the prince thing. But please, can we move on? I’ll just pretend you still think I’m some…nobody, who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.”

“And what does that make me?” Daylen challenged.

“The reason I think we have a chance of setting things right,” the warrior replied.

Daylen pursed his lips behind his beard. “I couldn’t do this without you, Alistair. You may think you’re some nobody, but to me? You’re my friend. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Now let’s go find out what’s happening in Redcliffe.”

—ROTG—

True to Alistair’s word, the village was past the next ridge, the scent of rotting bodies getting stronger. “That’s the castle, up that way,” Alistair explained, pointing at the structure in the middle distance. “Apparently, Ferelden has never fallen to any force that didn’t first capture Redcliffe. It’s the first, last, and best defense for the sole land route into the country.”

“The village is a hub for trading,” Leliana added. “The mountain pass to Orzammar is near here, as well as the route to the Orlesian border.”

Cupcake growled, and Daylen looked over to see an archer approaching them, his bow strung but not raised. The archer stopped a fair distance away, speaking as they closed on him. “I…I thought I saw travelers coming down the road, though I scarcely believed it. Have you come to help us?”

“I’m on important business. I need to see Arl Eamon,” Daylen said bluntly.

“The arl?” The archer asked incredulously. “Then…you don’t know? Has nobody out there heard?”

“I’ve heard he’s sick, if that’s what you mean,” Daylen replied.

“He could be _dead_ for all we know! Nobody’s heard from the castle in days!”

“All right, calm down, mate,” Daylen said soothingly. “Take a deep breath, start from the beginning, and tell me what’s going on.”

“We’re under attack,” the archer said. “Monsters come out of the castle every night, and attack us until dawn. Everyone’s been fighting…and dying.”

“Well, that’s just typical, isn’t it,” Zevran muttered.

“We’ve no army to defend us, no arl to lead us, no king to send us help. So many are dead, and those left are terrified they’re next.”

“Hold on,” Alistair broke in. “What is this evil that’s attacking you?”

“I don’t rightly know,” the archer admitted. “I’m sorry. Nobody does.”

Daylen sighed. “Is it animal, vegetable, mineral, what?”

“Walking corpses, living undead that drag off the living,” the archer said bitterly.

“Oh,” Daylen replied after a brief pause. “Well that, we can handle.” The archer gaped at him, and Daylen shrugged. “We live kind of an interesting life.”

“I should take you to Bann Teagan,” the man said. “He’s all that’s holding us together. He’ll want to see you.”

Alistair perked up. “Bann Teagan? Arl Eamon’s brother? He’s here?”

The archer nodded. “It’s not far, if you’ll come with me.”

He led them down a steep hill, past a windmill that was silently turning in the noontime breeze and overlooking the deep red cliffs that gave the village its name. In the center of the village, a man with a truly magnificent mustache was shouting at a ramshackle militia in the midst of a rough palisade. The archer led them through the mess, up the short set of stairs to the Chantry’s doors.

Daylen’s face fell as the group entered the Chantry. “Maker…is this all that’s left of the village?”

It wasn’t a pretty sight. The Chantry was filled with women and children huddled together. The normal scent of the inside of a Chantry – incense smoke, wax, and wood varnish – had been covered with the tang of sweat and fear. The sound of soft weeping was coming from multiple directions, and the villagers that the group could see were filthy, clearly scared, and eyeing the group suspiciously.

As the group moved through the Chantry, Daylen began speaking quickly and quietly, issuing orders. “Wynne, see to those wounded over there. Some of those wounds look serious. Leliana, see what you can find out about the situation. Morrigan, scout the surrounding area in your bird form. If you see anybody approaching the village, find me and let me know. Zevran, take Cupcake, scout the village, see if there’s any other ways we could be attacked by these creatures. Sten, Alistair, with me.”

“This way,” the archer urged, leading them through the Chantry. Daylen spotted an elderly man speaking with a younger man, armed with a sword and shield, but dressed in finery rather than armor.

“See to it,” the younger man ordered. The elder nodded and bowed, leaving as the younger man turned at their approach. He looked to the archer first. “It’s…Tomas, yes?” The archer nodded. “And who are these people with you? They’re obviously not simple travelers.”

“No, my lord,” Tomas replied. “They just arrived, and I thought you would want to see them.”

“Well done, Tomas,” the man – presumably Bann Teagan, Daylen thought – said approvingly. “Greetings, friends. My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, brother to the arl.”

“I remember you, Bann Teagan,” Alistair said quietly. “Thought the last time we met I was a lot younger and…covered in mud.”

“Covered in mud?” Teagan asked, looking closer at the warrior. His eyes widened in recognition. “Alistair? It is you, isn’t it? You’re alive! This is wonderful news!”

“Still alive, yes,” Alistair answered. “Though not for long if Teyrn Loghain has anything to say about it.”

“Indeed,” Teagan said darkly. “Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things.”

“Not all of us did,” Daylen chimed in. “You don’t believe Loghain’s lies?”

“What, that he pulled his men in order to save them? That Cailan risked everything in the name of glory?” Teagan scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Ah,” Daylen said uneasily. “That…part may be true.”

“Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the king. I don’t believe it. It is an act of a desperate man.”

“That, however, is false. Entirely.”

“So, you are a Grey Warden as well?” Teagan asked. “A pleasure to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances. You’re here to see my brother? Unfortunately, that might be a problem. Eamon is gravely ill.”

“What a remarkable coincidence,” Zevran said as he rejoined the group. “We’ve found a few things worth notice, Warden.”

“Good,” Daylen replied, looking to Teagan. “What’s the situation?”

“No one has heard from the castle in days,” Teagan said. “No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts. The attacks started a few nights ago. Evil…things…surged from the castle. We drove them back, but many perished during the assault. Each night, they come with greater numbers. Walking dead, decomposing corpses returning to life with a hunger for human flesh. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my urgent calls for help. I have a feeling tonight’s assault will be the worst yet.”

“Bann Teagan,” Daylen interrupted. “We may be few in number, but my companions and I stand ready to help.”

The bann’s shoulders slumped in relief. “I am grateful to hear you say that.” He gave Daylen a wry smile. “I was about to ask.”

“There are no darkspawn here,” Sten growled. “And nothing to gain. It is a fool’s errand.”

“If there’s a chance to rescue the arl, we have to try,” Daylen replied.

“Perhaps,” Sten acquiesced.

Daylen went on. “Besides, we’re trying to protect people where we can. I’m not abandoning these people.” Alistair smiled faintly at the mage’s words.

“Thank you,” Teagan said gratefully. “This means more to me than you can guess.” He looked to Tomas. “Please tell Murdock what transpired. Then return to your post.”

“Yes, my lord,” Tomas replied, bowing and leaving quietly.

“Now then,” Teagan went on. “There is much to do before night falls. I’ve put two men in charge of the defense outside. Murdock, the village mayor, is outside the Chantry. Ser Perth, one of Eamon’s knights, is just up the cliff at the windmill, watching the castle. You may discuss with them the preparations for the coming battle.”

“Murdock,” Daylen said. “The chap with the impressive mustache? Sounds like a mountain range learned to talk?”

“That’s him,” Teagan nodded. “Anything else? There is not much daylight left.”

“I have many questions, but none I think that can’t wait until tomorrow,” Daylen replied. “Time to get to work.”

Leliana and Wynne rejoined them as Teagan stepped away. “The wounded have been seen to,” Wynne reported. “They will be as safe as they can be. The walls of this building are thick and the doors strong, but they are not impregnable.”

“All those who cannot defend themselves are in here,” Leliana replied. “The children, the elderly, and the women who are not trained to fight are all here. This is what’s left.”

“The women should not be fighting regardless,” Sten rumbled. “It is not done.”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Maybe that's the case in Qunari lands, but here, no one cares about what you’re swinging between your legs when you’re swinging a blasted warhammer above your head!”

“The people are terrified,” Leliana said. “If the knights and the militia fail to keep the monsters from getting inside, Bann Teagan will be their only defense.”

Cupcake tugged at Daylen’s sleeve, and the mage looked down as the hound ran over to a crying woman. “Anything else?” Daylen asked, starting to follow the hound.

“Nothing yet,” Leliana admitted. “If I learn more, I shall tell you.”

“Excuse me,” A woman asked as Daylen passed by. “You’re a Grey Warden, right? Were you in Ostagar? In the Korcari Wilds?”

“I was, yes,” Daylen said. “Something wrong?”

“My husband and son went there to bring the Chant of Light to the Chasind, but I haven’t heard from them since.”

“Are you Jetta?” Daylen asked, flashing back to a pair of corpses he had seen in the Wilds.

“I am. You’ve heard of me?”

“I found your husband and son,” Daylen replied. “Unfortunately, so did the darkspawn.” He fished around in his satchel, finding the lockbox he had recovered what seemed like a year ago. “I have something here from your husband. I’m sorry.”

The woman was clearly fighting back tears as she accepted it. “Thank you so much for bringing this to me. It means a lot to…” she bowed her head, and Leliana stepped forward, wrapping a comforting arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Maker’s blessings upon you,” the woman mumbled.

Daylen nodded, heading towards the crying girl as Cupcake whined impatiently. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry, am I bothering you?” the woman asked through her tears. “I’ll try to be more quiet.”

Zevran spoke up. “Is this just fear, or is there something else wrong besides the horde of undead besieging your village?”

The woman burst into fresh tears, and Daylen shot him a dirty look. “Those things dragged my mother away,” the woman explained. “I don’t know what happened to her, but I hear her screaming all the time, everywhere! And now my brother, Bevin…he ran off! I don’t know where he is. I’m so scared they got him, too!”

“What’s your name?”

“Kaitlyn,” the woman sniffled.

“Kaitlyn, I’m Daylen Amell. Why would Bevin run off? He’s safer here.”

“He said something about saving mother,” the woman explained. “He’s just a little boy! He doesn’t understand she’s gone.”

“Grief can make us do many things that don’t make any sense, I’m afraid.”

Daylen looked at the woman, before glancing at Cupcake. “Do you have anything of his handy?”

“Well, he left his coat,” Kaitlyn offered, holding out the garment. “Why?”

Daylen smiled. “We’ll find your brother. Well, specifically, my dog will. He’s a mabari hound. If your brother is within five miles of here, he can sniff him out.” The dog gave a hurt whine. “All right, ten miles. Do you know where he might go?”

“Our house by the square, maybe, but I searched there! I searched the rest of the village, too.”

“We’ll find him,” Daylen assured her. He stumbled back as the woman wrapped him in a tight hug, sobbing thanks into his chest. “Uh, Leliana? Alistair? Sten? Little help?”

—ROTG—

Alistair sniffed as the wind shifted. “What is that smell? Fish? And something else…oh. _More_ fish.”

“It’s a fishing village, Alistair,” Leliana commented. “It’s going to have that…scent.”

Morrigan walked out of an alleyway. “Warden, the area around the village is clear. I see nothing in sight on the castle, either.”

“That was risky,” Daylen said.

“Very few sentries take aim at birds,” the witch replied dryly.

Daylen conceded the point with a shrug, before turning to Alistair. “Go find this Ser Perth, see if there’s anything he needs. I’m going to have a talk with Murdock.”

“Warden, before you do,” Zevran spoke up. “I checked out the general store. Besides a not insignificant amount of coin, there is lamp oil there. Several barrels, in fact. Think of how lovely a bonfire would be if we used these monsters as kindling.”

“Zevran, I like the way you think,” Daylen replied with a grin. “Go with Alistair, tell them where to find the oil.”

The two departed, and Daylen turned, his smile fading as he overhead some of the archers speaking quietly. “You know we don’t have the men we need,” one said. “And their numbers just keep on growing each night.”

“Well, sure, they take the dead and they…you know,” another replied.

“I guess this might be the last night after all,” a third commented grimly. “The king isn’t coming – nobody is.”

“So what can we do? Leave? Try to get out of the village?” the first asked.

The second paused mid-shot. “And abandon everyone? No. We fight.”

The third nodded in agreement. “We’ve no other choice.”

“Gentlemen,” Daylen said quietly. “Have a little faith. You’ve just gotten reinforcements.”

“And just who are you, to come tell us that?” the first archer asked.

“Daylen Amell. Circle mage, Grey Warden, and all the support you’re going to need.”

“After Ostagar, pardon me if I don’t have much faith in the Wardens,” the second archer said scornfully.

Daylen rolled his eyes, before raising a hand and lobbing a fireball straight up. The fireball exploded after a few seconds of flight, the crash drawing the attention of the entire militia.

“Listen to me, all of you,” Daylen said, raising his voice. “You’re scared, I understand. You don’t know me, you don’t know my companions. But if any of you have any doubts, if you think you’re going to die tonight? You’re wrong. Every one of you is going to make it through.”

“Why should we believe you?” someone shouted.

“The fireball I just lobbed into the air didn’t convince you?” Daylen asked. “I’m a Grey Warden. I’ve got two other mages with me and they’re just as capable as I am. You lot have had a rough few days. We’re here to help you out, but if you don’t think you can cope, just take a minute and dig deep for a bigger set of balls, because you're gonna need them before we're through! Everyone in this village is going to make it through this just fine! Your families will be safe! You’ll survive this! And when we do, the first round’s on me!” A ragged cheer went up, and Daylen nodded. “Where’s Murdock?”[1]

“Here,” a gravelly voice said. “That was some display.” The man stepped out of the crowd, and Daylen was once again struck by the magnitude of the man’s mustache.

“This place does still have a tavern, right?” Daylen asked. Murdock nodded, and Daylen sighed in relief. “Good. If I promise everyone a pint, I want to be able to deliver.”

“Good to hear it. So you’re the Grey Warden, are you? Heard they all died with the king.”

“You heard wrong,” Daylen said bluntly.

“So you say,” Murdock rasped. “A damned Qunari could walk up and say he was a Grey Warden – I wouldn’t know the difference.”

“Sten?” Daylen looked at the giant. “Any comments?”

“No.”

“We aren’t going to turn aside anyone who wants to help,” Murdock continued. “Don’t take me for being an ingrate or nothing. I’m mayor of what’s left of the village – providing we aren’t killed and hauled off to the castle tonight. From what you said, I’m guessing we won’t be.”

“Have faith, man,” Daylen replied. “We’re going to defeat this evil together.”

“I hope you’re right,” Murdock said. “I’ve been trying to hold us together, but it isn’t easy. Anyhow, you’re here, and they tell me you’re in charge.”

“What can I do to help?”

“We need what little armor and weapons we have repaired, and quickly, or half of us will be fighting without either. Owen’s the only blacksmith who can do it, but the stubborn fool refuses to even talk. If we’re to be ready for tonight, we’ll need that crotchety bastard’s help.”

“And what’s up his arse?” Daylen asked. “Why does he refuse to talk to you?”

“His daughter, Valena, is one of the arlessa’s maids. So he hasn’t heard from her since this whole business started. He demanded we attack the castle, break down the gate, and force our way in. I said it was impossible, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s locked himself in the smithy now. I can’t force him to do repairs. He says he’d rather die first.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else you need?”

“We could use some extra bodies, but you’ve helped with that issue,” Murdock said. “Having a veteran like Dwyn in the militia would help a lot, but he flat out refuses.”

“Who’s Dwyn?” Daylen asked.

“He’s a trader, a dwarf. Lives near the lake. Locked himself up in his home with some of his workers, he has, says he doesn’t need any of us. We could use someone with his fighting experience, but he won’t come out.”

“A dwarven trader with combat experience?” Alistair asked.

“He’s a collector, as well,” Murdock said. “Likes Qunari weaponry.” Daylen’s eyes widened. Behind him, Sten tensed. “He’s just back from Orzammar, too. Bet he regrets stopping by.”

“He collects Qunari swords?” Daylen asked.

“Just brought a big one back with him,” Murdock confirmed. “Why?”

“Because the giant behind me is a Qunari,” Daylen explained. “Who is missing his sword. And wants it back rather badly. Said sword was last known to be with a trader near Orzammar. We’re going to go have a talk with him.”

“Good luck, Warden.”

Daylen looked at the setting sun. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

—ROTG—

_Redcliffe  
King Calenhad Theirin once famously declared, “The fate of Redcliffe is the fate of all Ferelden.” Certainly, the castle is the first and last defense for the sole land route into Ferelden, and the country has never fallen to any force that did not first capture Redcliffe._

_The castle, which despite being three times captured is popularly described as “unassailable,” also guards one of the largest and most prosperous towns in Ferelden. Redcliffe village is well situated near the mountain pass to Orzammar and the Orlesian border, and so serves as a center of foreign trade. For these reasons, Redcliffe is accounted an arling despite the smallness of the domain._

_The inhabitants of Redcliffe village are primarily fishermen or merchants who ship dwarven goods through the pass from Orlais to Denerim. When the entire village smells of smoked fish on certain late autumn mornings, the merchants in their finery do their utmost to pretend otherwise._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Die Hard 4. [ return to text ]


	12. The Defense of Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group sets out to defend Redcliffe. The things you do for people...

_Politics of Ferelden  
To our neighbors, Ferelden seems utterly chaotic. Unlike other monarchies, power does not descend from our throne. Rather, it rises from the support of the freeholders._

_Each freehold chooses the bann or arl to whom it pays allegiance. Typically, this choice is based on proximity of the freehold to the lord's castle, as it's worthless to pay for the upkeep of soldiers who will arrive at your land too late to defend it. For the most part, each generation of freeholders casts its lot with the same bann as their fathers did, but things can and do change. No formal oaths are sworn, and it is not unheard of, especially in the prickly central Bannorn, for banns to court freeholders away from their neighbors--a practice which inevitably begets feuds that last for ages._

_Teyrns arose from amongst the banns, warleaders who, in antiquity, had grown powerful enough to move other banns to swear fealty to them. There were many teyrns in the days before King Calenhad, but he succeeded in whittling them down to only two: Gwaren in the south, Highever in the north. These teyrns still hold the oaths of banns and arls who they may call upon in the event of war or disaster, and similarly, the teyrns still hold responsibility for defending those sworn to them._

_The arls were established by the teyrns, given command of strategic fortresses that could not be overseen by the teyrns themselves. Unlike the teyrns, the arls have no banns sworn to them, and are simply somewhat more prestigious banns._

_The king is, in essence, the most powerful of the teyrns. Although Denerim was originally the teyrnir of the king, it has since been reduced to an arling, as the king's domain is now all of Ferelden. But even the king's power must come from the banns._

_Nowhere is this more evident than during the Landsmeet, an annual council for which all the nobles of Ferelden gather, held for almost three thousand years except odd interruptions during Blights and invasions. The sight of a king asking for--and working to win--the support of “lesser” men is a source of constant wonder to foreign ambassadors._

_\--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

—ROTG—

Daylen eyed the house in front of them as Cupcake scratched at the door. “Are you telling me that Kathryn’s little brother went _straight to his own house_ and his sister couldn’t find him?” Cupcake tilted his head in confusion, before sitting down and scratching behind an ear. “Oh well. In we go.” He glanced at his companions. “Sten, Morrigan, wait out here. If Alistair or Zevran come looking, we shouldn’t be long.”

The giant nodded. “As you wish.” Morrigan remained silent, leaning against the side of the house and scowling.

“Any reason you left Sten out there?” Leliana asked as they entered the house.

“If you were a scared little boy and an armored, scowling giant with a very large sword surprised you in your own home, would you react well?” Cupcake sniffed the air, before the hound put his nose to the ground, sniffing about for a few moments. “You sure he’s here, pup?” The dog turned to look at him for a moment, before resuming his search. “That’s got to be the first time I’ve ever seen a dog be personally offended.” The dog snuffled, before padding into the bedroom. “You find the boy?”

“ _Whuff_!”

There was a quiet thump from inside the dresser. Daylen could hear a short, surprised gasp from inside the dresser. “Hello?” The Warden said softly. “Is someone in there?”

A voice came from inside the wardrobe. “Go away! This isn’t your home!”

Daylen rolled his eyes, but Wynne spoke up, using the commanding tone that Daylen _knew_ was taught to all enchanters at the Circle. “Young man, come out this instant.”

There was a brief pause. “I…yes, ma’am.” The door opened, and a young boy with blond hair the same color as his sister stepped out, looking at them warily. “All right, I came out. You won’t hurt me, will you? I’ll go back to the chantry if you really want.”

“Are you Bevin?”

The boy looked up, squinting at Daylen. “You know me?”

“Your sister is looking for you,” Daylen answered, kneeling in front of the child. “She’s worried sick. This is your house, isn’t it?”

“It was my mother’s house,” the boy said quietly. “She’s dead now, and Kaitlyn said we have to move away. If we survive.”

“So what were you doing in here? You’re safer in the chantry,” Daylen asked.

“I…I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

“Are you sure?” Daylen offered, looking the child square in the eyes. “Maybe I could help you.”

The boy shuffled a moment, before nodding. “I just…Father said I could have his sword when I grew up. It was Grandfather’s, and he was a great dragon-slayer. I thought…if I was brave like Grandfather, I could use his sword and…kill the bad people who took Mother.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “You’re a little young to be taking on dragons, Bevin, but you are indeed very brave to try.”

“Thank you, ser,” Bevin stammered. “But the sword is too heavy for me. I guess…I guess I’m not as strong as someone like you.”

“You’ll grow up eventually, don’t worry,” Daylen declared. “You should see my friend standing outside. You might be as big as him one day!”

“That doesn’t help us now,” the boy said quietly. “Kaitlyn says everyone’s going to die tonight.”

“Not if I’m here to help, they won’t,” Daylen replied. “Nobody’s dying tonight if I have anything to say about it. I’m a Grey Warden. My companions and I are going to help you.”

“Really? You must be very brave. I wish I was like you.”

“Where’s this sword now?” Daylen asked.

“In the chest in Mother’s room. Father gave me a key, but I’m not supposed to give it to anyone.”

“Perhaps I could help you and your sister in return?” Daylen offered.

“You could? Maybe you could…give my sister money? She said if we had money we’d be all right, even if Mother is dead.”

“I’ll talk to your sister about it,” Daylen promised. “Meanwhile, I could use that sword to help the village.”

The boy dug around in a pocket, pulling out a brass key. “Here’s the key. I hope you use it to kill a lot of those bad people. I should…go back to the Chantry.”

Daylen nodded. “Cupcake?” The dog looked at him. “Make sure he makes it back all right.”

“ _Whuff_!” The dog nosed Bevin’s hand, and the boy giggled before the two left the house.

“Leliana, go grab the sword,” Daylen instructed, handing the rogue the key.

“What’s next?” Wynne asked as the rogue trotted upstairs. “That blacksmith, or the dwarf?”

“Let’s talk to Dwyn next,” Daylen decided. “Sten looked like he was about to march over there and beat the sword out of him.”

Leliana came back down the stairs, a bundle wrapped in oilcloth in her arms. Daylen accepted the bundle from her, stowing the weapon in his pack. The hilt of the weapon poked out of his rucksack, and Daylen made a mental note to bend his knees when he went through doors. “It is elven-made,” Leliana said. “Veridium. Very well-balanced.”

“Well, that’s one sword recovered,” Daylen declared. As they exited the building and found the rest of the party back together, the Warden looked to Sten. “Let’s go have a talk with Dwyn.”

The giant remained impassive, but Daylen spotted a slight clench in the Qunari’s jaw. “Yes.”

Finding the dwarf’s house was simple enough with Murdock’s directions. Daylen shouted and hammered on the door to no reply. The mage turned to Leliana. “Leliana, can you pick the lock?

“I can,” Sten said, rearing back and planting his armored boot just above the lock. The door held. The doorframe did not, and the group entered the house, confronted almost immediately by two mercenaries in leathers and a dwarf in thick armor.

“Wonderful,” the dwarf sneered. “Intruders. I hope you’ve a good reason for breaking and entering into my home.”

“You’re talking to a mage,” Daylen snapped at him. “Care to rephrase that?”

The dwarf flinched. “You know what? In the interest of keeping my face from bursting into flame, I think I will. The name’s Dwyn. Pleased to meet you. Now, kindly tell me why you’re here.”

“Two reasons, but first things first,” Daylen said. “I’m looking for a Qunari sword you bought in Orzammar. Probably from a trader named Faryn.”

“You broke into my house for _that_?” Dwyn asked incredulously, pointing at a massive blade mounted on the wall. Sten’s eyes widened as he saw it. “It must be worth something to you, then.”

“It’s worth a lot more to my very large, very angry friend here, who happens to be the rightful owner of that blade,” Daylen replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the increasingly-impatient Sten.

“So it’s _your_ sword?” Dwyn asked, pointing at Sten. “Faryn didn’t mention he took it off a live giant.”

“He wants his blade back,” Daylen explained. “He’s rather attached to it. Would be good for your soul, not to mention your limbs, to return it.”

“You know, that sounds like a great idea,” Dwyn agreed. “Now why don’t you take your sword and leave?”

“Before we go,” Daylen went on. “What are you doing shut up in here?”

“Surviving,” Dwyn replied. “We have supplies to last for quite some time, and my boys and I can swing a weapon better than any of those fools out there.”

“So I hear,” Daylen said. “Your boys certainly look like they can handle themselves. But you’ll die in here just as easily as you would out there.”

“Thanks, but I’ll take my chances in here. Everyone else can run around in the open, waiting to die.”

“Can’t I change your mind?” Daylen asked. “They could use your help.”

“Maybe. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

“I could put in a good word for you with Bann Teagan or the Arl.”

Dwyn grunted. “You might just be able to pull that off. Fine, I’ll throw in with the militia. For now. You better be out there too, when the sun goes down. I’m not fighting for a lost cause, you hear me?” The men trooped out, and Daylen pulled Sten’s sword off the wall mounting, turning it over in his hand and briefly marveling at the weight of the weapon before handing it to Sten.

“Strange,” the giant remarked, hefting the blade. “I had almost forgotten it. _Completion_.” He looked to Daylen, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Are you sure you are a Grey Warden? I think you must be an ashkaari to find a single lost blade in a country at war.”

“I made you a promise, Sten,” Daylen replied. “You’re welcome.”

Sten dropped the looted greatsword he had been using to the floor, strapping his own blade in its place. “I would thank you for this, if I knew how.”

“What will you do now?” Daylen asked. “After all, you owe the Arishok a report.”

“I promised to assist you in the Blight,” Sten said. “And I could deliver a much more satisfying answer to the Arishok's question if the Blight were ended, don't you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Daylen agreed.

Sten cracked a warm smile. Daylen was surprised that the big man's face didn't shatter under the sudden strain. “Then lead the way.”

—ROTG—

“Thanks for persuading Dwyn to come out here,” Murdock remarked as they passed by. “He’s going to be a great help, I just know it.”

“I’m off to talk to Owen now,” Daylen said. “Those knights get the oil?”

“They’ll have a nice trap set for those monsters,” Murdock agreed.

Daylen hammered on the door of the smithy, glancing nervously at the sun as it moved lower in the sky. “Oi! Open the door!”

“Go away, curse you!” Came the muffled reply. “Leave me in peace! You’ve already taken everything out of my stores! There’s nothing left!”

“Is this Owen, the blacksmith? I need to speak with you,” Daylen called.

There was a brief pause. “Oh? Who is that? What do you want?”

“Daylen,” Alistair said. “We are short on time…”

“I’d prefer not to speak through a door,” Daylen replied. “Can I come in?”

“All right, all right, let me undo the locks. All I ask is that you don’t make any trouble.”

As they entered the smithy, Daylen practically gagged as the smell hit his nose. “Sweet _Maker_!”

Leliana flinched as she sniffed the air. “What is that smell? It’s like someone set a brewery on fire!”

“Somebody’s been _drinking_ ,” Alistair commented.

“So I let you in,” Owen said, dropping an empty bottle next to a pile of its mates. Scratching an unkempt beard that had a great deal of scorch marks in it, he fished around in a crate for a fresh bottle. “You wanted to talk. Now we’re talking. Mind telling me who you are?”

“My name is Daylen, a Grey Warden helping Bann Teagan.”

“A Grey Warden, is it? Huh. It takes all kinds. Anyhow, my name’s Owen, though you might already know that.” The smith found a fresh bottle, biting the cork off and taking a pull. “Care to join me as I get besotted? Or is there something in particular you wanted?”

“I need you to get back to work,” Daylen said bluntly. “Why are you leaving those men unprepared?”

“My girl, Valena, is one of the arlessa’s maids and she’s trapped up there in the castle, but the mayor won’t send anyone for her.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow as the smith passed by him. “So rather than help them through this and save enough lives to attempt an attack on the castle, you’re going to drink yourself to death?”

“Why not? It’s not like we’re going to live past the night anyhow.” The smith scoffed. “Or are you going to save us?”

Daylen looked him square in the eyes. “Yes, I am.”

The smith paused. “Is that so? Huh. Maybe it’s the drink talking, but you almost sound like you believe that.”

“Owen, in the past few months I’ve survived the Battle of Ostagar, fought demons, darkspawn, and werewolves, ended a curse that’s lasted for centuries, and cleansed a Circle of blood magic and demonic possession. All you have is a living dead infestation! I may fight left-handed, just to give them a fair chance!”

The smith laughed. “I don’t know if you can help us or not, but you can brag with the best, Warden!” He grew somber. “Look, it’d do me a world of good to think maybe someone like you could go in and find her, provided any of us live through the night.”

“Owen, you get the militia outfitted, and I give you my word that I’ll find your daughter for you.”

Owen peered at Daylen for a few moments, his bloodshot eyes meeting Daylen’s. The two stared each other down for several moments. “I’ll accept that,” Owen said finally. “It’s something to hope for, at least.” Dropping the half-empty bottle in a rack, he rolled his shoulders, several pops coming from the joints. “It seems I have some work to do, re-lighting the forge, and I suppose I’ll have to find some iron. Maybe at the mill?” He shook his head. “Murdock just better send his men here as soon as possible if I’m gonna get to all these repairs and get them done by nightfall.” He looked back at the Warden. “If you need anything done, just let me know. I’ve got a lot to do now, so you’ll have to excuse me.”

—ROTG—

“Well, it looks like Owen’s finally doing the repairs we need,” Murdock remarked, eyeing the smoke coming from the forge stack. “The damned fool is falling over drunk and still manages to make smithing look easy. Good enough, I say.” He looked over at Daylen. “I’ll inform Bann Teagan the militia is ready to fight. We’ll give those bastards a welcome they won’t soon forget!”

“We’re not only ready, Murdock,” Daylen declared. “We’re going to win.”

“I hope you’re right,” Murdock said. “We may just be village folk, but we’re going to fight like there’s no tomorrow.”

Daylen gestured to his companions as Murdock made for the Chantry. “All right, everyone. That bridge from the castle is the only way those monsters can get to the village. We’re going to keep them out. Zevran, Alistair, did Ser Perth need anything?”

“He does,” Alistair nodded. “He’s a decent enough fellow. Tried to call me as ‘my lord,’ spoke with me frankly. He and his knights are set for weapons and armor. But I’m not sure we can supply what he needs.”

“What’s he need?”

“Holy protection,” Alistair said flatly.

Daylen winced. “Yes, I think that’s a bit out of our line. Maybe the Revered Mother could help us?”

—ROTG—

The woman sighed as Daylen asked. “I have done all I can for Ser Perth and his knights. I pray for them, each knight, and seek the Maker’s forgiveness for their sins before they face their deaths. What Ser Perth seeks is something that is not my power to give!”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“Ser Perth believes that I can protect them against these creatures,” she explained. “A shield only the Maker can provide. I would not withhold this power were it within my ability to grant it, especially not now!” She went on as Daylen opened his mouth. “And I will not lie to them and let them think the Maker protects them in a real sense!”

“Morale is a powerful thing,” Daylen replied. “If they think it helps them, it could inspire them!”

“It still seems like trickery,” the priestess groused. “Very well. If it keeps them alive, I will do what I must. I have a number of silver-cast holy symbols. Tell Ser Perth that he can have them, and that wearing them will confer the Maker’s protection.”

—ROTG—

“Well, that’s just about everything,” Daylen declared as Ser Perth trotted off, tasking one of his men to retrieve the amulets from the Revered Mother. “Anyone fancy a pint?”

As the group entered the pub, Daylen spotted an elf eyeing them warily. The elf stared at him a moment longer, before hurriedly looking down at his ale.

Daylen flashed a smile at a redheaded bar wench as she passed by, before murmuring to Leliana. “That elf in splintmail, over in the corner. He look a little suspicious to you?”

“Very,” Leliana agreed. “Shall we?”

“Leliana, Zevran, with me,” Daylen said. “Everyone else, hang back, but if he tries anything, he doesn’t make it out the door.”

As the Warden approached the elf, he looked up. “Not looking for company,” he said brusquely. “I’m not here to talk.”

“Too bad,” Daylen replied. “Last time someone stared at me like you do, I had to kill him.”

“Sure you did,” the elf snapped. Daylen winced, realizing his bluff had failed.

“There’s something about him,” Leliana said, meeting the elf’s eyes. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? I know a spy when I see one.”

“Look, I don’t know you, and I don’t want to,” the elf spoke hurriedly. “I’m not…I mean I was just told to…I mean, just leave me alone!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Daylen said, as Leliana and Zevran spread out slightly, emphasizing that the elf was cornered. “Start talking.”

“About what? Just because you’re a Grey Warden doesn’t mean you can go around threatening people!”

“No, the fact that I can incinerate you with a thought means that,” Daylen said, smiling sweetly. “And how do you know I’m a Grey Warden?”

The elf glanced at Daylen’s companions. “I just…overheard it,” the elf replied evasively. “That’s all. If you’ll excuse me, I want to get to the Chantry before the sun goes down.”

Daylen clicked his fingers, and the elf stiffened as a burst of frost froze him to his seat. “This will be much easier if you just tell me what you’re hiding.”

The elf stammered a bit, before slumping. “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you! Just…don’t hurt me.”

“Spill it!”

“This is more than I bargained for. Look, they just paid me to watch the castle and send word if anything should change. But they never said anything about monsters! I haven’t even been able to report anything since this started! I’m stuck, same as you, I swear!”

“Who are ‘they’?” Daylen challenged. “Who hired you to do this?”

“A tall fellow, I forget his name. He said he was working for Howe. Arl Rendon Howe.”

Zevran hissed out a breath. “Ah, of course. One of Loghain’s compatriots.”

“He’s an important man!” The elf protested. “Teyrn Loghain’s right hand! So I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You idiot,” Daylen sighed. “Teyrn Loghain abandoned the king at Ostagar. Congratulations, you’ve helped a regicide take out one of the threats to his coup.” The elf blanched. “I think you should help defend Redcliffe tonight. Speak to Murdock, tell him I sent you. Now beat it.” The elf scrambled out the door, the bench crunching as he came unstuck.

“How is it you manage to recruit the enemy so easily?” Zevran asked as they headed for the table the others had gathered around.

“Raw sex appeal,” Daylen muttered, catching the wench’s eye again. “Should we go to the counter, or can you help us out?”

“Another pack of doomed souls come to drown their sorrows here, I see?” the woman replied. “I’m Bella. If you came for a drink, you’ll have to talk to Lloyd. He’s got a vise grip on the spigots. I’m just here to keep the boys from mutiny.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the Chantry with everyone else?” Daylen asked.

“I would be if I didn’t need this job so badly,” Bella grumbled.

Daylen reached into the pouch Zevran had given him, fishing out some of the coin. Thumbing out five sovereigns, he watched as Bella’s eyes grew wider with each clatter of the coin hitting the table. By the fifth coin, her mouth was slightly open. “When we survive this, you take this money, you get out of here.” The woman looked almost frantic as she looked back and forth between Daylen’s completely serious face and the money on the table. “It should get you to Denerim. Just promise me you won’t wind up in another place like this.”

“You jest, surely,” Morrigan said as Bella walked away, her mouth still slightly open and the coin in her pocket. “Why not simply throw all our coin in the river?”

“It’s not _our_ coin,” Daylen replied. “We didn’t make this money working honest jobs.” He glanced around to make sure nobody was in earshot. “Zevran nicked it.”

“Why do you insist on helping these people?” Morrigan asked disdainfully. “They would not help against the Blight, even if they could.”

Daylen shook his head. “If you don't get it, I doubt my explaining it will do any good.”

“Try me.”

Daylen paused, gauging his companion, before shrugging. “It's not just about gathering allies. When a person commits an act of goodwill, it transforms into something more. Something greater. Something _better_. A gift to everyone around me. Hope. [1] Grey Wardens aren't just here to fight the darkspawn. They're here to protect, preserve, and if necessary create hope where there is none. And that's what I'm going to do. Bring hope.”

“These people will little remember or care for you,” she pointed out.

The words came almost too easily. “It doesn't matter that they won't remember me. What matters is I helped.”

The witch groaned. “Fine. Have it your way.”

“What do you think the odds are?” Alistair asked, trying to change the subject. “Clearly things can’t be too bad – the village is still here, after all – but it doesn’t seem like these people are all that well-equipped.”

“Whatever it is, we can handle it,” Daylen said. “Now, we’ve got a few hours to kill before nightfall. Can anyone think of anything we missed? Anything more we can do?”

“We could set some traps along the path to the castle,” Zevran offered.

“Take Alistair, Leliana, and a couple of the militia, and get it done,” Daylen ordered. “Tell Murdock you need anyone skilled with traps. Anything else?” Nobody provided any suggestions, and Daylen nodded. “All right then. Spread out, do what you can. But make sure that you’re by the mill before nightfall. Those monsters don’t get past us. Understood?” A chorus of agreements sounded. “Good. Let’s move.”

As the others spread out, Daylen made for the bar, eyeing the hefty man scratching under a filthy apron behind the bar. “Hello there, friend,” the barkeep replied. “Can’t say we’ve ever met before. Stranger to the village, I take it? Haven’t had many travelers lately. All this nonsense is bad for business. Bet you regret coming!”

“Not at all,” Daylen replied. “You lot would be in real trouble if my companions and I hadn’t arrived. You seem less worried than everyone else about all this.”

“Well, I don’t much know what I can do about all this, so I try not to worry too much about it,” the barkeep said. “So what’ll it be? You _are_ here to drink, I hope?”

“Who are you, anyway? And why are you in here, instead of out with the militia?”

“Name’s Lloyd, and I’m not abandoning my tavern because of a few monsters. The second I’m in the Chantry, Murdock and his men’ll be here drinking all my ale. When them creatures attack, I lock myself in the cellar. Just batten the hatches and wait it out. What’s the point in getting myself killed with all the rest of them? If that makes me a coward, then I’m a coward.”

“Wait it out?” Daylen asked skeptically. “You mean wait for the monsters to kill everyone else? They need everyone to help. That includes you, mate.” Lloyd rolled his eyes, and Daylen scowled. “Just remember that they’ll remember who _didn’t_ help out when this is all over.”

“But, but…ach, fine,” Lloyd grunted. “Fine, I’ll go. But all of this better be here when I get back! I don’t want this place drunk out from under me!” Grumbling under his breath, the portly man stormed out. A bewildered Bella glanced between the door and Daylen.

“Looks like you’re in charge for now,” the Warden said with a wink. “Don’t water down the drinks too much.”

—ROTG—

Daylen eyed the setting sun. “For all that we had to do, it’s amazing how quickly we managed to get it all done.”

“Hardest part of any battle is the waiting,” Alistair replied, working a whetstone down the length of his sword. “You spoke to Bann Teagan?”

“Got as much information as I could out of him,” Daylen confirmed. “Mostly about this quest the arlessa has all the knights on.”

“This search for the Ashes of Andraste?” Alistair shook his head. “I can’t imagine why she’d think that a handful of knights could find an artifact that has been lost for nine hundred years in the middle of a Blight and a civil war.”

“Well, as Bann Teagan said, ‘she is a woman of great faith,’” Daylen said acidly. “Which I took to mean she prefers sending good men on insane errands. I also spoke with him about what the plan is for tomorrow. He believes that we can find the source of these monsters and stop them before any more lives are lost.”

“You spoke to the Revered Mother as well, I saw,” Morrigan chimed in.

“Interesting woman,” Daylen mused. “She was able to tell that I’m a mage, yet not only did she _not_ quote that one verse of the Chant at me, but also actually seemed grateful that I was here.”

The witch raised an eyebrow. “This shocked you?”

“I’m used to Chantry workers being barely tolerant of magic, even when it’s personally helped them. I once watched an enchanter heal a Chantry sister that had sliced her hand open to the bone and was bleeding badly. There wasn’t even a scar. She thanked him by screeching at him and claiming he had no right to use his ‘filthy magic’ on her. The templars had a real pickle with that one.”

Alistair cocked his head, looking at his friend. “Daylen, don’t take this the wrong way, but are you…gaining weight?”

Daylen looked down. “Am I? You know, my robes have been fitting a little tighter across the chest and shoulders lately.”

Alistair nodded. “You look like you’re bulking up. Is that magic doing that?”

Daylen’s head popped up. “Magic.  _Of course_. The Life Gem!”

“What?”

“The Life Gem, back in those ruins in the Brecelian Forest! It taught me how to turn my magic inwards and strengthen my body! I just didn’t realize what it meant by that!”

“So, what, your magic did this?” Alistair asked skeptically.

“I don’t know,” Daylen admitted. “But lately I have felt stronger. Healthier, too. Like everything took less effort.” He shrugged. “I figured it was a Warden thing.

“Besides what happens after the Joining, I’ve never heard of something like that happening,” Alistair said, grabbing a pair of sticks from a woodpile that had been used to construct some makeshift fortifications. Tossing one to Daylen, he fell into a ready guard. “Let’s see if it helps.”

“If you bash me in the ribs again, I swear I am going to freeze your-” Daylen broke off as he found himself parrying Alistair’s blows. “How did I do that?”

“I guess you picked up some actual skills from that thing, as well as the knowledge of how to strengthen yourself,” Alistair said, stepping back as Daylen took the offensive, a wide grin on his face.

“This is great! I can finally stop running away!”

“Even better, I won’t have to keep jumping in the way of pointy objects for you,” Alistair said.

“Oh come on, that was one time!”

“One fight. Three arrows,” Alistair shot back.

“The wounds healed!” Daylen shook his head. “We’re getting off topic. You think I should start wearing armor?”

“Yeah. Maybe the blacksmith can make something for you?”

“I doubt he could make me a properly fitted set of armor before nightfall,” Daylen remarked. “But…” he looked over at the sword sticking out of his pack. “Maybe that sword we picked up?” Retrieving the blade, Daylen felt the hilt fit into his hand in a way that felt far more comfortable, more _right_ , than he had thought possible. The blade cleaved through the air as he twirled it experimentally, the light glinting off the weapon as he moved through several strikes, parries, and counter-strikes. “Oh, _Maker_ , that feels good.”

“You said that you learned these skills from the spirit of an elf,” Alistair said, thinking out loud. “That blade is elven-made. It probably works well together.”

“I don’t know if that has anything to do with it, but I certainly can work with this,” Daylen replied, gleefully sweeping Alistair’s sword out of the way and slamming the pommel of the sword into Alistair’s shield, leaving a scuff mark on the metal. “You think the darkspawn are ready for a mage that can wear armor?”

—ROTG—

Daylen gnawed on a piece of jerky as the sun disappeared over the horizon. “Is everything ready?” He asked for the fourth time in the past half hour.

 

“Yes,” Ser Perth replied. “We are as prepared as we can be.” As the sky darkened, Ser Perth signaled to his men. A quartet of knights hauled barrels of oil out to the narrowest point in the path to the castle. Uncorking the barrels, the knights poured them out, standing clear of the spilling oil as it coated the topsoil. “Be ready,” he warned. “They come soon after dark.”

“We’re ready,” Daylen said, wondering when he had become so confident. His eyes widened as he saw a greenish glow lighting the way from the castle. “Is that…”

“Yes,” Ser Perth growled to a militia runner as the greenish glow began to move along the bridge to the town, a trail of unworldly light following it. “Send word. They are coming.”

The man sprinted off, hollering at the top of his lungs. “Get to your positions! Make ready!”

“Prepare yourselves,” Ser Perth said. The knight took a deep breath, his face calm. “Maker, please watch over us in this trying time.”

Mist began to gather around their feet, and Daylen glanced about. “Has this happened before?”

“Every time,” Ser Perth replied. “Be alert. They hide in the mist.”

Daylen spotted figures moving among the mist, and thumped the base of his staff into the ground, his companion wisp flaring to life and his skin hardening. “Knights, hang back. Let our ranged fighters handle them until they get closer.” Leliana, Zevran, and Alistair drew their bows, while Morrigan and Wynne readied their staves. Sten and Cupcake stepped aside, content to stay out of the way until needed.

The sound of clanging and snapping reached the defenders. Zevran snickered. “It seems they found my little surprises,” he said.

“Light the traps!” Ser Perth ordered as the walking corpses came into view.

“Maker preserve us,” Wynne breathed as more of the creatures flooded down the hill. “There are so many…”

“Why are those traps not lit?” Ser Perth demanded. One of the knights looked up, fumbling with a set of flint and steel as another waited with an arrow wrapped in an oil-soaked rag. Daylen sighed, spinning his staff and lobbing a fireball into the midst of the oil field, sending bodies flying and igniting the oil. Ser Perth flinched at the blast, but regained his composure, drawing his greatsword.

“Wynne, Morrigan, with me,” Daylen called, striding forward. “Archers! Aim carefully!” An arrow whizzed by his ear and caught a walking corpse in the eye socket, and Daylen turned to glare at the sheepish knight. “For _them,_ you ponce!”

Wynne moved first, a cluster of glyphs blazing to life on the ground ahead of the field of fire. As the corpses strode through the fire heedless of the flames licking at their rotting flesh, they stepped into the trap laid by the enchanter, setting off the glyphs. Some were blasted backwards into the fire, black smoke streaming from their bodies as they burned. Others were frozen in place, paralyzed by the magic.

The archers opened fire, and arrows zipped past the trio of mages, felling undead left and right. More pushed past them, and Morrigan took over, snapping off a cluster of entropic curses and finishing up with a sustained blast of lightning, several of the paralyzed undead dropping as their bodies were too damaged to continue.

Daylen for his part was weaving magic, mana flowing through the air around him and resonating with his building spell. Peering through the flames, he spotted more of the undead stomping down the path from the castle towards the defenders. The magic reached its peak, and Daylen thrust his staff into the air, a localized blizzard exploding into being past the edge of the flames. The edge of the fire closest to the castle was snuffed out by the flames, but the undead walked through the ice and wind, as unmindful to the damage it was doing as they were to the flames they proceeded to pass through. The flow of undead coming through the flames slackened off as Daylen sagged, his eyes watering as the spell depleted a hefty chunk of his mana reserves. Patting down his satchel, he fished out a lyrium potion, downing the serum in two swallows and flinging the empty vial at an approaching corpse’s head, before freezing it in mid-stride with a burst of frost. Several arrows thudded into the undead creature’s body, and Daylen spotted a cluster of undead halfway through the grease fire as the frozen body keeled over, shattering on impact with the ground.

The mist thickened, and out of the corner of his eye, Daylen spotted the glow along the path growing brighter. Sidestepping out of the way, Daylen watched as another flurry of arrows zipped through the open ground between the firetrap and the defenders. A conjured lump of stone from Wynne snapped an animated corpse’s neck, the head lolling backwards grotesquely as the broken bone stabbed through the skin. The body stumbled forward, staggering about in a way that would be comical to anyone with a twisted sense of humor until Morrigan hit it with a bolt of lightning and finished it off. Daylen followed Wynne’s example on another charging undead, the stone hitting slightly lower and shearing the corpse’s head off entirely.

Zevran dropped his aim, hitting a corpse in the kneecap and dropping it to the ground. It snarled at them, and Zevran loosed another arrow, ending the creature.

Leliana, to her credit, was dropping corpse after corpse with arrows to the face and head, every single shot on target. Alistair’s shots were slower, more hesitantly aimed, but the warrior had his sword at his belt and his shield slung over his back for when things got interesting.

Another cluster of glyphs erupted into being, and Wynne sagged slightly at the magical expenditure. Daylen wordlessly passed her a lyrium potion, and the enchanter slammed a lump of conjured stone through the torso of one undead and into the chest of the one behind it in thanks.

Morrigan weaved through another spell somewhat hesitantly, mimicking Wynne’s motions, before smiling smugly as a series of her own glyphs sprang into being. Wynne glanced her way, frowning, but continued casting.

Daylen offhandedly blasted a corpse with lightning until it dropped, before glancing at Morrigan. “Anyone else feeling like this is too easy?”

“It _is_ odd,” Wynne agreed. “From the stories the villagers told, I had expected a veritable flood of these creatures.”

“Can you hold them?” Daylen asked. The other two mages nodded, and Daylen booked it back to the knights. “Ser Perth. Level with me. Is there any other way from the castle into the village?”

“Not that I know of,” the knight replied. “Why? You intend to attack?”

“Not if I can avoid it. But where are the numbers of these things we’ve been expecting?”

As if on cue, a militiaman in leathers sprinted up the path. “They’re coming from the lake!”

“ _Maker_ , am I tired of being right,” Daylen growled, tossing Wynne a lyrium potion and downing one of his own. “Sten, Wynne, Leliana, help the knights hold here! Alistair, Morrigan, Zevran, Cupcake, with me!”

The group charged down the path, passing the militiaman on the way down, spotting a large group of the undead swarming the makeshift fortifications that had been erected. Daylen aimed carefully and let loose a confined cone of frost, freezing the front line of the group of corpses as he, Alistair, and Zevran came in from the flank. The militia used the brief reprieve to regroup and hack the frozen corpses to pieces. Cupcake lunged, ripping the throat out of one of the undead and continuing to rip and tear until the creature’s head came off. Morrigan lingered behind on the path, dissolving into the darkness.

Daylen grunted as an undead clawed at his arm, smacking the end of his staff into the creature’s face. The corpse behind it grabbed the end as he missed on a second strike, yanking the weapon out of his hand. “Oi! That’s mine!” Grabbing the closest undead by the neck, Daylen shoved it back, clearing a few feet of space momentarily and drawing the elven-made sword he had recovered from Bevin’s house. He felt the knowledge and experience planted in his mind kicking in. The blade felt familiar in his hand, and he spun into action, the blade flashing in the firelight as he carved the nearest corpse into pieces, kicking the head away as it snapped at his ankles.

Alistair shouted in a corpse’s face a few feet to Daylen’s right as he shoved a trio of them back with his shield, before lopping one’s head off and parrying an attack from the next, shoving it to the side as Zevran’s sword came down, the corpse’s head dropping cleanly off its shoulders. Zevran turned, kicking the next in the kneecap, parrying two independent attacks before his blades whirled, body parts flying left and right as his weapons liberated them from their owners. One of the odd hands that came loose bounced off Cupcake’s flank as the warhound tackled a corpse off a screaming militiaman, the dog’s mighty jaws snapping the creature’s neck easily. The dog bounded away, blindsiding a corpse that was charging Daylen from behind, the Warden spinning and lopping one of the corpse’s hands off as he heard the clattering of paws and jaws. The edge of the sword caved in the undead’s skull as he brought it down in an overhand swing.

It was then that the wind shifted, the torches flickering, and Daylen spotted massive webs spun between the houses with numerous corpses caught in them, a giant spider ripping the limbs off of one of the undead. More corpses were pushing at the webs, heedless of their comrades already caught. “I see Morrigan’s been busy,” he quipped to Alistair, shoulder-checking a corpse out of the way and nodding as Zevran lopped the creature’s head off.

“Disgusting, yet effective,” Alistair acknowledged, offhandedly bashing a corpse in the face with his shield, ignoring the squawk the undead made and stomping on its skull. “There’s wounded.”

“And if we had time to heal them, I would,” Daylen replied, shifting the sword to his off hand and freezing an approaching corpse in place, before taking its head off with a carefully aimed two-handed swing. He saw one of the webs give way and whistled to Zevran, before dropping a grease spell at the choke point. The rogue jammed one of his blades into a corpse’s chest before retrieving an incendiary flask from his belt, pitching it at the grease field and igniting it. Zevran planted a boot on the corpse’s torso, ripping his blade free and moving on down the line of undead.

“Fall back!” Alistair said as another one of Morrigan’s webs gave way, the spider scuttling over one of the houses and vanishing. “They’re coming from that direction!”

Daylen lobbed a fireball, grimacing at the draw on his magic. Fire magic had never been his strong suit. Hacking at a corpse’s neck, he kicked the undead away and followed Alistair closely, retrieving his staff from underneath a pile of corpses.

As is common in battles, things went bad with surprising speed. Corpses flooded through the gaps, and Morrigan appeared from out of the shadows in human form, her staff crackling with lightning as her spell arced from one corpse to another, dropping several of them with a single burst.

For every one that dropped, three took their place. Alistair was forced back by the weight of the corpses against his shield, stabbing instead of slashing with his blade as he tried to stand his ground. Zevran’s blades whirled as he took ‘disarming’ literally and relieved several corpses of various limbs, before dropping a frost bomb and backing hurriedly away as more corpses swarmed over the pile of bodies. Cupcake yelped as he was smacked aside, bouncing across the ground and hitting Daylen in the side of the knee, knocking the Warden off his feet.

Daylen watched as Lloyd dropped, blood streaming from a chest wound, and Teagan fell to one knee, desperately trying to fend off a pack of hissing corpses. Magic swirled around him, lacking direction, and he felt panic clawing at his focus.

They would be overwhelmed.

Their job would end here.

Ferelden would fall.

Daylen's eyes snapped open, an icy focus fixed on his face. “ _No_! Morrigan, glyphs! Now!” The magic streaming off him expanded outwards, intent driving it with a very singular purpose as Morrigan dropped several paralyzing and repulsion glyphs around the defenders, buying them some time. Around him, flesh knitted, bones set themselves, and men felt their flagging strength restored as Daylen pumped more and more magic into the sustained spell. He raised his voice, hands outstretched to either side of him. “On your feet!” Ripping a lyrium potion from his satchel and downing it, Daylen lobbed a fireball into the thickest concentration of corpses, setting them alight. Flinging a blob of grease into the other chokepoint, Daylen yanked an incendiary flask from Zevran’s belt and tossed it, sealing off that point temporarily. “Alistair, rally them!”

“Stand fast, men!” Alistair hollered. “We're not dead yet!  _We will not fail_! Form up! Defenders of Redcliffe, to me!”

“Morrigan,” Daylen said, preparing another lyrium potion. “Can you create a tempest right now?”

“Where do you want it?” The female mage asked. Daylen pointed out the area in question, and she began weaving the magic, even as Daylen looked at the last chokepoint, eyeing the distance between the two buildings. Dropping a blizzard on top of Morrigan's tempest, the resulting storm began tearing apart the corpses charging through the gap, the wood and stone of the buildings warping and bending under the assault.

“Focus on the remaining chokepoint!” Teagan ordered.

“No!” Daylen shouted, downing the potion and coughing, blue flecks appearing in his beard. “Leave it to me.” Striding forward, he called upon a type of primal magic he rarely used. Offhandedly punching an attacking corpse in the face and knocking it off its feet, Daylen stomped on its skull as he began weaving magic, aiming precisely before dropping a blazing firestorm in the final chokepoint. Ignoring the searing heat on his face and beard, he unleashed blasts of frost on the buildings on either side of the firestorm, keeping them from igniting. Scraping his tongue against his teeth to get the sticky feeling of lyrium off his tongue, Daylen watched as corpses burnt or froze trying to run through the spells. Backing towards the defenders, he watched as wounds sustained healed themselves as his magic filled the air.

“This is new,” Morrigan said, feeling the magic thrumming in the space around her.

“I'm not sure how it works,” Daylen admitted, feeling the firestorm winding down and swayed slightly, feeling the extra pull on his mana from the unfamiliar magic. “I think it's sort of a constant healing effect.”

“Regardless, 'tis turning the tide,” Morrigan said. “Stand firm.”

Daylen pushed out a mass rejuvenation spell, and the defenders stood straighter. “Zevran, did you happen to see any sign from the upper defense point?”

“No signal,” the elf replied.

“Sten will hold the line,” Alistair said reassuringly.

“He better,” Daylen growled. “We can't be in both places at once!” Morrigan blasted a corpse in the face with a bolt of lightning, dropping the smoking body to the ground. “Alright, Alistair, you’ve fought more battles than me. Do we hold, or do we push them back to the lake?”

“Hold here,” Alistair replied. “We don’t have the numbers to push them back. We can outlast them.”

The grease fire continued to burn as more corpses staggered through, and Zevran and Alistair went to work on the far right avenue, hacking them to pieces even as Daylen and Morrigan’s combined storm burned out and collapsed in on itself, frost-encrusted body parts scattered about the area the storm had covered.

As the firestorm collapsed, it revealed more corpses shambling forward, and Daylen groaned. “Men, time to get back to work.” Taking a steadying breath, he did a quick count of the defenders before wincing. “This is going to hurt.” The drain on his mana increased as he called upon another spell, elemental frost collecting around the blades and arrowheads of the defenders. The Warden grimaced at the strain, leaning heavily on his staff.

Blades that froze flesh as they cut were surprisingly effective against the undead, locking them in place as the defenders cut them apart. Morrigan charged up a long burst of lightning that arced from corpse to corpse, dropping a half-dozen in a single spell. Alistair smacked one undead into another with a sharp blow from his shield, before running through both with a single thrust, drawing his blade back and beheading both corpses. The warrior whooped in triumph, backhanding another corpse with his shield. “Did you see that?”

“Yes, yes, very impressive,” Zevran replied, his blades flashing as a trio of corpses dropped, various muscles severed and leaving them as snarling piles on the floor. Zevran dropped another incendiary flask in his wake, igniting the bodies.

Alistair gave him a mock glare. “Showoff.”

The militia, to their credit, were making a fair accounting of themselves. The archers, supported by Daylen and Morrigan, were holding down the left, a growing pile of bodies beginning to block the path. The warriors and skirmishers were holding down the center, the walking dead striding heedlessly into swords, axes, and Cupcake’s jaws only to be reduced to the just plain dead.

“Maker, how many of these things are there?” Alistair asked as he and Zevran put their shoulders to the pile of bodies they had made, blocking the path. Another corpse tried to clamber over the pile, and Zevran pulled a pair of flasks from his belt, tossing the grenades over the pile and grinning as they loosed devastating effects on the other side, the hiss of ice and the crackle of lightning audible over the sounds of the battle.

“Some questions, we don’t ask,” Daylen said as they rejoined the group. “Take some of the pressure off the militia if you can.”

The defenders fell into a simple, if terrifying, pattern. The undead would charge, the defenders would hack them to pieces as they came, and any wounds sustained would close in a matter of moments as Daylen’s magic knitted flesh and fused bone.

The Warden was weaving, feeling his strength flagging, when the undead began to come again. “They’re making another push!” Murdock shouted. “Hold them, men!”

Morrigan snarled, casting again. A tempest burst into existence across the left-hand alley, and she blurred into the shadows as Daylen dug deep, bringing up a spell of his own. “Alistair, Zevran, pull back!” The air began to crackle and snap as his spell built, and a highly localized blizzard exploded over the undead on the right, the wind whipping Daylen's robes back and forth as ice, snow, and freezing cold battered the walking corpses. Daylen dropped his staff and collapsed against the palisade, his limbs trembling and his vision blurring. “Not good,” the Warden wheezed.

A roar rang out above the sounds of the battle as Morrigan charged from the shadows in the form of a bear, swatting one of the undead aside with a single swipe. The body crunched as it slammed against a wall, and Morrigan bellowed a challenge, several undead that had been harassing Alistair and Zevran breaking off to charge her.

Daylen threw his hands up again, calling down more elemental power, and he cried out from the strain even as he brought down a second storm, this one of lightning rather than frost, and placed it on the far left avenue, taking the pressure off the defenders. The undead fell in droves as the storm took its toll, as Daylen downed another lyrium potion, gasping for breath. The storm finally dissipated, showing the street clear of undead, and Daylen slid to the ground, heavily winded from the effort.

Daylen was still slumped against the wooden stakes of the palisade when Morrigan approached some time later, once again in human form. “Hello,” the Warden said dully. “I think I passed out. A few times.”

“Dawn approaches,” Morrigan said quietly. “Well done, Warden. You can rest now. The defenders, to a man, are still alive. The knights on the hill sent a runner – they too are all alive. A resounding success, I should say.”

“Good,” Daylen said, leaning back against the palisade. “Because I haven’t a scrap of mana left, but I have a feeling I'm going to be pissing blue for a while.” Cupcake came over and nosed his hand, getting a tired scratch behind the ears. “What's up, boy?” The dog snuffled, and Daylen checked his teeth, working a spiky chunk of bone out of the dog's gums. The dog barked happily and licked Daylen’s face before trotting off to rally the other defenders.

—ROTG—

By the time the sun had fully risen, the defenders of Redcliffe had regrouped, knights and militia alike, and had taken stock of what remained. Bann Teagan had gathered the people in front of the Chantry to address them.

“Dawn arrives, my friends, and _all_ of us remain. We are victorious!” A hearty cheer went up. It was true. Between the healing efforts and the stunning defensive effort, nobody had died. Daylen’s head was sagging as he leaned on Alistair, the warrior fighting a smile as Daylen dozed standing up.

“And it is these good folk you see beside me that we have to thank for our lives today,” Teagan went on. “Without their heroism, surely we would all have perished.” He addressed Daylen directly. “I bow to you, ser. The Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour.” Alistair nudged Daylen, who stared blearily at Teagan before nodding, keeping his jaw clamped shut to avoid yawning.

“Allow me to offer you this: the helm of Ser Ferris the Red, my great-uncle and hero of Ferelden. He would approve passing it to one so worthy.” Teagan passed over the helmet he had been wearing the previous night, and Daylen accepted it, blinking hard.

“Thank you, Bann Teagan,” Daylen replied thickly. “I require no reward for this, but I am honored by your gift.”

“Take it then, and use it in good health,” Teagan said warmly, before turning back to the crowd. “Let us bow our heads and give honor to those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone bowed their heads, and Alistair elbowed Daylen in the ribs as a quiet snore escaped the Warden. “Now they walk with He who is their Maker. Long may they know the peace of His love,” the Revered Mother intoned.

“With the Maker’s favor, the blow we delivered last night to their numbers is enough for me to enter the castle and seek out your arl,” Teagan continued. “Be wary and watch for signs of renewed attack. We shall return with news as soon as we are able.” He turned to Daylen, speaking quietly. “Now we’ve no time to waste. Meet me at the mill. We can talk further there.”

—ROTG—

“You saved us,” Kaitlyn said quietly. “I can’t believe we’re alive and it’s finally over.”

“For you, it’s over,” Daylen replied, yawning widely now that the official ceremonies were over. “I still have a Blight to deal with. What are you and Bevin going to do now?”

“I’m not sure,” Kaitlyn admitted. “We don’t have much money.”

Daylen perked up. “Oh. That’s right. I promised Bevin I would pay you for the sword.”

Kaitlyn shuffled nervously. “I…I have no idea what it’s worth, to be honest. And you found Bevin…I couldn’t ask you for money…”

"Take five sovereigns." Daylen fished the coins out of his pouch, pressing them into the woman's hand. "Get yourselves set up in a new life."

"Bless you, Warden," Kaitlyn said tearfully. "Bless you."

"And you," Daylen said, unbuckling the sword. "If you really plan to use this sword, you had best stay safe and grow up strong. Then you can use this blade. Protect the innocent and defeat evil, all that. All right?"

"I will," the boy stammered.

"Oh, you can do better than that," Daylen chided, holding the weapon out. “Will you make something of yourself, boy?”

The child clutched the sword to his chest. "I will, Warden! I'll be the best knight that ever was!"

The Warden chuckled. “Good. I hope to hear the tale of Ser Bevin one of these days.”

Kaitlyn smiled tearfully at the Warden. “With all the money you gave us, I’ll have someone take us to Denerim. With any luck we’ll be safe there.”

—ROTG—

Daylen hammered on the door of the smithy, idly wondering how the place hadn’t caught fire after all the alcohol fumes he could smell had come in contact with open flame.

“Good to see you in one piece,” Owen said as he let them in. “Do you have news of Valena, yet?”

“Not yet,” Daylen admitted. “That’s actually why I’m here. We’re going to move on the castle. Can you give us a quick description of your daughter, just so we know if we find her?”

“She’s young, blonde, blue eyes,” Owen rattled off. “Takes after her mother, luckily.”

“We’ll find her.”

The group tramped up the hill, and Daylen paused at the top of the slope, swaying slightly. “All right, that’s not good,” he slurred, staggering forward before Alistair grabbed his arm.

“Easy, there,” the other Warden said quietly, steering him away from the edge. “Let’s get you something to eat before we meet Bann Teagan up at the mill.” Letting Daylen lean on him, Alistair turned the mage around and headed for the tavern.

“Taking charge, I see,” Daylen mumbled. “Impressive. Gets me all hot and bothered.”

“Not funny,” Alistair grumbled, hauling his friend up the steps to the tavern. “What idiot thought it would be a good idea to put a tavern at the top of a set of stairs?”

“What’s with him?” Lloyd asked as they entered the building. “He all right?”

“Tell you later,” Alistair said, slinging Daylen onto a stool at the bar. The Warden bounced off the bar railing and slid to the floor, groaning. “Oops. You got something for him to eat?”

Lloyd eyed the man on the floor as the others followed the Wardens inside. “Yeah, I think I got something that’ll fix him up. Get him in a chair, will you?”

Zevran took Daylen’s other arm and helped Alistair drag him into a chair. “Was that necessary?” Daylen asked.

Alistair gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“Alistair, there’s something I need to tell you,” Daylen went on, his head lolling to one side.

“Shush, just get some food in you,” Alistair said as Lloyd emerged with a loaf of bread and some cheese on a platter.

“No, wait,” Daylen pressed. “On the bar. Someone scratched a message into the wood. It says…” he shook his head, refocusing his eyes on Alistair. “It says don’t eat the cheese.”

Alistair paused halfway through a bite of cheese. “Did it say why?”

“No, but I’ll just be having bread.”

Alistair swallowed hard, scraping his tongue against his teeth. “Well, I’m young yet. Maybe one piece won’t kill me.”

Daylen nodded, before growing pensive, staring at the wall as one would regard a beautiful sunset. “Alistair, about your dream in the Fade…”

“What, at the Circle?”

The mage nodded. “You want a family as badly as I do, don’t you,” Daylen said quietly.

“More than anything,” Alistair admitted. “I thought I had one in the Wardens, and then most of them died. I’m hoping to do better in family number two.”

“Well, we’ve got each other,” Daylen offered.

“Boy, am I in trouble,” Alistair sighed.

Daylen snorted, before slugging his friend in the shoulder. “You better not come down with anything I can cure.”

“Well, so long as I avoid the dreaded sniffles, I ought to be fine.”

—ROTG—

_The Veil  
I detest this notion that the Veil is some manner of invisible “curtain” that separates the world of the living from the world of the spirits (whether it be called the Fade or the Beyond is a matter of racial politics I refuse to indulge in at the moment). There is no “this side” and “that side” when it comes to the Veil. One cannot think of it as a physical thing or a barrier or even a “shimmering wall of holy light” (thank you very much for that image, Your Perfection)._

_Think of the Veil, instead, as opening one's eyes._

_Before you opened them, you saw our world as you see it now: static, solid, unchanging. Now that they are open, you see our world as the spirits see it: chaotic, ever-changing, a realm where the imagined and the remembered have as much substance as that which is real—more, in fact. A spirit sees everything as defined by will and memory, and this is why they are so very lost when they cross the Veil. In our world, imagination has no substance. Objects exist independently of how we remember them or what emotions we associate with them. Mages alone possess the power to change the world with their minds, and perhaps this forms the nature of a demon's attraction to them—who can say?_

_Regardless, the act of passing through the Veil is much more about changing one's perceptions than a physical transition. The Veil is an idea, it is the act of transition itself, and it is only the fact that both living beings and spirits find the transition difficult that gives the Veil any credence as a physical barrier at all._

_—From A Dissertation on the Fade as a Physical Manifestation, by Mareno, Senior Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle of Magi, 6:55 Steel_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1The Librarians (2014) [ return to text ]


	13. Reclaiming Redcliffe Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group pushes into Redcliffe Castle and matters continue to complicate themselves.

_Demonic Possession  
Why do demons seek to possess the living?_

_History claims they are malevolent spirits, the first children of the Maker, angry at their creator for turning from them and jealous of those creations he considered superior. They stare across the Veil at the living and do not understand what they see, yet they know they crave it. They desire life, they pull the living across the Veil when they sleep and prey on their psyche with nightmares. Whenever they can, they cross the Veil into our world to possess it outright._

_We know that any demon will seek to possess a mage, and upon doing so will create an abomination. Most of the world does not know, however, that the strength of an abomination depends entirely on the power of the demon that possesses the mage. This is true, in fact, of all possessed creatures. One demon is not the same as any other._

_Demons can, for instance, be classified. Enchanter Brahm's categorization of demons into that portion of the psyche they primarily prey upon has held since the Tower Age._

_According to Brahm, the weakest and most common of demons are those of rage. They are the least intelligent and most prone to violent outbursts against the living. They expend their energies quickly, the most powerful of them exhibiting great strength and occasionally the ability to generate fire._

_Next are the demons of hunger. In a living host they become cannibals and vampires, and within the dead they feed upon the living. Theirs are the powers of draining, both of life force and of mana._

_Next are the demons of sloth, the first on Brahm's scale that are capable of true intelligence. In its true form, this demon is known as a Shade, a thing which is nearly indistinct and invisible, for such is sloth's nature. It hides and stalks, unaware, and when confronted, it sows fatigue and apathy._

_Demons of desire are amongst the most powerful, and are the ones most likely to seek out the living and actively trick them into a deal. These demons will exploit anything that can be coveted—wealth, power, lust—and they will always end up getting far more than they give. A desire demon's province is that of illusions and mind control._

_Strongest of all demons are those of pride. These are the most feared creatures to loose upon the world: Masters of magic and in possession of vast intellect, they are the true schemers. It is they who seek most strongly to possess mages, and will bring other demons across the Veil in numbers to achieve their own ends—although what that might be has never been discovered. A greater pride demon, brought across the Veil, would threaten the entire world._

_\--From The Maker's First Children, by Bader, Senior Enchanter of Ostwick, 8:12 Blessed._

—ROTG—

Daylen stumbled again as the group left the tavern, glaring at his feet in disgust. “All that food and rest and rejuvenation magic and I’m still like this,” he grumbled.

Leliana looked to Wynne. “Is this common?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” the enchanter replied. “When an apprentice draws too heavily on their magic, or expends too much mana in a short time, even with lyrium to support them, a state such as this can result.” She gave Daylen a disapproving look. “It rarely happens to Harrowed mages, who by that point typically know better.”

“Most mages weren’t in that situation,” Daylen shot back as the group started up the hill towards the mill. “I just hope whatever Bann Teagan needs isn’t too dangerous. I can’t draw on my magic like that again. Not so soon.”

They found Bann Teagan at the edge of the cliff near the mill, looking at Redcliffe Castle with a grim look on his face. “Odd how quiet the castle looks from here,” he remarked. “You would think there was nobody inside at all.”

“There might not be,” Daylen offered. Teagan shot him a quizzical look. “Well, could there be another way out of the castle? The Arlessa and the others might have fled.”

Teagan shook his head. “They would not abandon the Arl in his condition, nor could they transport him in that state. Besides, there are only two exits to the castle, and there has been someone on watch at all times. Had they left, we would know.”

“Wishful thinking, I suppose,” Daylen muttered. “The knights and the militia can defend the village. What do you plan to do?”

“I had a plan,” Teagan explained, “to enter the castle after the village was secure. There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family.”

“So that’s how you plan to get in,” Daylen realized. “I thought besieging the castle seemed a bit impractical.”

“To say the least,” Teagan agreed. “I would have entered the castle by now, but I had no idea what awaited me, and I couldn’t abandon the people of the village.” He opened his mouth to go on, before his jaw dropped fully open, the man staring over Daylen’s shoulder. “Maker’s breath!”

“Teagan!” A woman called, her Orlesian accent thick in her words. “Thank the Maker you yet live!”

Daylen winced at the woman's shrill voice, scratching at his ear much the same way Cupcake had when she had started speaking. “She could etch glass with that...”

“Isolde!” Teagan said in amazement. “You’re alive! How did you…?” He shook himself. “What has happened?”

“I do not have much time to explain,” Isolde said. “I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly.”

“You slipped away through the front gate?” Daylen asked in confusion.

“And I need you to return with me, Teagan,” Isolde went on, either not hearing or not caring what Daylen said. “Alone.”

“Well sod _that_ ,” Daylen snorted. “We need more of an explanation than that!”

“What?” Isolde looked at Daylen distastefully, and the Warden’s jaw hardened in response. “Who is this man, Teagan?”

Alistair sighed. “You remember me, Lady Isolde, don’t you?”

The arlessa looked at him, her face flashing through recognition, shock, disgust, and carefully controlled surprise in quick succession. “Alistair? Of all the…why are _you_ here?”

“For the waters,” Daylen muttered. “Why do you think?”

“They are Grey Wardens, Isolde,” Teagan interrupted before Daylen could further prove just how poor a diplomat he could be. “I owe them my life.”

“So does everyone else in the village,” Daylen broke in.

“Pardon me,” Isolde said. “I would exchange pleasantries, but considering the circumstances…” She turned back to Teagan, dismissing them without a second thought.

“Please, Lady Isolde,” Alistair asked, shooting Daylen a warning look. “We had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers!”

“I know you need more of an explanation,” Isolde spoke to Teagan. “But I…I don’t know what is safe to tell.”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Let’s start with _what in the world is going on in there_!”

“Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues. And I think Connor is going mad. We have survived but he won’t flee the castle. He has seen so much death! You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!”

“Hold on,” Daylen said. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling us everything?”

Isolde looked as if Daylen had just waved his bum in her face. “I…I beg your pardon! That’s a rather impertinent accusation!”

“Not if it’s true it isn’t,” Daylen riposted. “The lot of us just spent a ruddy awful night hacking creatures who used to be your subjects into little bitty pieces and setting the remains on fire.” Alistair winced, but Daylen went on before he could intervene. “Then you show up, coming from a place where we know _something_ is raising the dead – and mind you, that means either a necromancer, which is unlikely since I doubt you have any Nevarran _mortalitasi_ on hand, or a demon. And you start off by demanding that the only real authority figure left in the village just up and leave to go back to the place where there may or may not be demons?” Daylen paused for effect, holding Isolde’s gaze. “Can you not see how this looks just _a little_ suspicious?”

“An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage! I came for help! What more do you want from me?”

“Isolde, please,” Teagan broke in soothingly. “I do not understand what you mean by this ‘evil.’ Did it create the walking corpses? What is it?”

“Something the mage unleashed,” Isolde declared. “So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live. The others…were not so fortunate. It’s killed so many, and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village!” She paused briefly, wringing her hands. “It wants us to live, but I do not know why. It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help.”

“That means a demon,” Daylen groused. “And believe me, no demon would allow anyone to leave unless it meant luring someone powerful enough to possess and impersonate – or more likely, possess due to magical ability – within striking distance.” The Warden began pacing, silently grateful he didn’t stumble in front of the arlessa. “Tell me about this mage.” Alistair shot him a glare, and Daylen winced. “If you would, I mean.”

“He is an…infiltrator, I think,” Isolde said haltingly. “One of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband. That is why Eamon fell ill.”

“Eamon was _poisoned_?” Teagan burst out. “Why?”

“He claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain’s hired him,” Isolde explained. “He may be lying, however. I cannot say.”

“Makes sense,” Alistair said. “It removes another threat to his takeover. Rather suspicious, however.”

“Look, if there’s one thing we saw proved at Ostagar, it’s that Loghain doesn’t do subtle,” Daylen replied. “Why do you need just the Bann to go with you?”

“For Connor’s sake, I promised I would return quickly and only with Teagan,” Isolde said. “Teagan, I know you could order your men to follow me when I return to the castle. I beg you not to, for Connor’s sake!”

“The king is dead, and we need my brother now more than ever,” Teagan replied. “I will return to the castle with you, Isolde.”

Daylen stared at the man with his mouth slightly open for a moment. “So after all that fuss last night, you’re going to go get yourself killed?”

“I cannot let Isolde return alone,” Teagan replied. “Perhaps I can help Connor or Eamon. Perhaps this is really a trap, but this is my family. I must try. I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone. You, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable.” Teagan looked to the arlessa. “Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you.”

Isolde nodded, wringing her hands. “Please do not take too long! I will be by the bridge.”

As soon as the arlessa stepped out of earshot, Teagan turned to the Warden. “Here’s what I propose. I go in with Isolde and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door. It is a simple passage, so there is no risk of getting lost.” The bann paused, squaring his shoulders. “Perhaps I will distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?”

“Counter-proposal,” Daylen replied. “You hang back, open the entrance for us, we tell the arlessa to go sit down and have a cuppa at the Chantry, and my companions and I go in through the secret passage and deal with the demon that’s in the castle.”

Teagan’s face hardened. “I wasn’t asking for your permission to do this. Why are you so sure it’s a demon?”

“I’m a mage,” Daylen replied. “We know what the behavior of demons looks like. We’re trained to recognize and resist them. Besides, the last two major problems we dealt with – with the Dalish elves and the Circle – were both caused by spirits, demons, and blood magic. It seems to be a pattern.”

“Regardless, I intend to go back with Isolde. Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle entrance. If you can open the gates from within, they can move in and help you.” He slid a ring from his hand, pressing it into Daylen’s palm. “Here is my signet ring. It will open the lock on the door in the mill. Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde me, and anyone else…we’re expendable.”

Daylen shook his head. “Nobody is expendable. We didn’t get everyone in the village through last night alive just to leave you lot on the chopping block. We all go in, we all come out.”

Teagan extended a hand. “You are a good man.” Daylen clasped hands with the man. “The Maker smiled on me indeed, when He sent you to Redcliffe.” He glanced over Daylen’s shoulder, seeing the arlessa pacing by the bridge. “But I can delay no longer. Allow me to bid you farewell. And good luck.”

As the Bann strode off, Daylen sighed. “Well, let’s get to work then. Alistair, tell Ser Perth to wait at the entrance to the castle. We’ll have to do this before nightfall – the village can’t withstand another attack. If it comes to that, they may have to destroy the entrance to the castle. Seal it up until reinforcements from elsewhere arrive.”

“You think that will be necessary?” Leliana asked as Alistair left to speak with Ser Perth.

“I hope not. But we don’t know how many demons are going to be in there. Even with the three mages we have – Wynne, do you think you have the hang of Mana Clash now?” The enchanter nodded. “Good. Like I was saying, even with the three mages we have, we’ll be fighting in close quarters. Alistair, Zevran, and you will be vital in there.”

“Are you fit to fight?” Zevran asked, checking the edge on one of his blades.

“Fit enough,” Daylen replied, idly fiddling with Bann Teagan’s signet ring. “I’ll be using magic only.”

Alistair returned and the group entered the mill, crowding into the narrow space. “Poke around, see if you can find the door,” Alistair suggested.

“Don’t suppose you know where it is,” Daylen asked, finding a badly-written love letter stashed in a cubbyhole and pocketing it. Alistair shook his head. “Well, check around. It’ll probably be on the floor. Can’t be on the walls, after all.”

Zevran whistled, sweeping some straw off the floor to reveal a door handle. “Over here.” Daylen tossed the rogue the ring, and Zevran pressed the ring into a slot below the handle. There was an audible click as the door unlocked, and Zevran hauled the door open, passing the ring back to Daylen and drawing his blades. “Follow me.”

The elf dropped into a low tunnel, squinting in the dark. “It seems clear, but stay alert.”

Morrigan twitched her fingers, and a ball of magelight blossomed in her hand, casting warm light down the tunnel. “Do not trip.”

Zevran’s swords led the way as he moved smoothly down the tunnel. “I should be insulted by that.”

The tunnel sloped downwards, and Daylen glanced upwards. “Do you think we’re under Lake Calenhad?”

“Unlikely,” Zevran murmured. “It would be impractical. It probably goes around the lake.”

The group emerged from the tunnel into a damp, narrow hallway, coming through a metal grate on the floor.

“A dungeon of some sort,” Daylen mused. “Charming. Even nicer than the one at the Circle. Only one door, so at least we know where we’re going.” They opened the door to find a handful of walking dead battering on the gate of a cell at the opposite end of the hallway.

“Alistair, Zevran, Cupcake, you’re up,” Daylen murmured, drawing his staff. “Sten, Leliana, hang back.”

The three fighters charged, and Daylen froze one of the undead in place moments before Cupcake’s weight collided with it, the creature shattering under the impact. The others were quickly dispatched, and Zevran was wiping his blades clean when a new voice sounded.

“Who's there?”

Daylen's head snapped around, his jaw dropping. “ _No_. It couldn't be.”

Alistair looked over. “What?”

“I think we just found the apostate that summoned the demon,” Daylen said quietly, his eyes narrowing at a cell at the end of the row. “I'd know that nasal whine anywhere.” The group approached the cell, and the Warden spotted a filthy, bloodstained man in mage robes with his face pressed against the bars.

“By all that’s holy, it's you,” Jowan said quietly.

Daylen's eloquent response consisted of a fist to the face. Blood spurted, and Daylen grabbed the cell door near the lock, freezing it solid and kicking the weakened metal until it broke. Ripping open the door, the Warden entered the cell, looming over his former friend. “Give me one reason not to end you right now, Jowan.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Acquainted, are you?”

“This rat bastard betrayed me!” Daylen grabbed the bleeding mage by the collar, hauling him to his feet and sinking his knee into Jowan's gut. “Lily went to Aeonar because of you! I nearly got executed myself!” Over the mage's apologetic wails, Daylen looked his friend in the eye and paused, his fist still raised. “Forearms.”

Jowan raised his hands, his sleeves falling back and revealing unmarked forearms. “I haven't used it since that night, Daylen.”

Daylen grabbed him by the nose, healing the injury with a thought. Jowan grunted as the bone and cartilage shifted. “You've gotten better at that.”

“You have no idea,” Daylen said, crouching in front of Jowan. “Now I need information. Don't lie to me, I've killed way too many people in the past few months to faff about. Did you summon the demon?”

“No, of course not!”

“Do you know who did?”

“No. Yes. Well, maybe.”

“Those are the options, yes,” Daylen replied.

Jowan smiled in spite of himself. “I’m sorry. Look, Connor – the arlessa’s son – had started to show…signs.”

Daylen’s eyes widened. “Connor’s a mage?” Jowan nodded. “I _knew_ that bitch was lying to me! It is a demon, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Jowan admitted. “Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle of Magi would take him away for training. She sought an apostate, a mage outside the Circle, to teach her son in secret so he could learn to hide his talent. Her husband had no idea.”

“Arl Eamon has no idea of his son’s abilities?” Daylen asked incredulously.

“No. She was adamant that he never find out. She said that he’d do the right thing, even if it meant losing their son. And that infuriated her.”

“Why?” Daylen asked. “Isolde wouldn’t need to be frightened. Sure, Connor wouldn’t be able to inherit the title of Arl, but as the son of one he would be treated far better at the Circle than any of us ever were.”

“He would be taken away from her, forever,” Jowan said quietly. “She is also a pious woman. Her son having magic was…humiliating.”

“Pious enough to hate magic, but not so pious as to turn her son in or to condemn apostasy,” Daylen snorted. “Funny how the rules suddenly stop applying when they become inconvenient. How much magic did you teach Connor?” Daylen’s eyes widened as he made a mental connection, and he glared at Jowan. “And _what kind_?”

“Just basic magic,” Jowan protested. “He’s still very young. He can barely cast a minor spell, never mind something more powerful. At least, not intentionally. I mostly taught him how to control any accidental outbursts.”

“Accidental outbursts?” Alistair echoed. “Mages have to deal with that as well?”

“Young apprentices do,” Wynne replied. “The first release of magic for many young mages is typically accidental. One of the first things apprentices learn is how to prevent them.”

“But he can’t even cast a proper spell yet!” Jowan went on. “Now, I’ve thought about it, and it _is_ possible that Connor could have inadvertently done something to tear open the Veil, which would have let spirits and demons infiltrate the castle. Powerful ones could kill and create those walking corpses.”

Daylen idly kicked one of the bodies on the ground in the head. “I see. So, is it true you poisoned Arl Eamon?”

Jowan shuffled. “Yes.”

“Who ordered you to?”

“Teyrn Loghain.”

“Directly? Or through an agent?”

“Through an agent. I never met the man, but I was promised that if I dealt with Arl Eamon – who I was told was a threat to Ferelden – Loghain would settle matters with the Circle.”

“I…why would you believe that?” Daylen sputtered. “What power would Loghain have over the Circle – who doesn’t answer to the Crown? You’d be executed on sight!”

“All I wanted was to be able to return!”

“Again, why?” Daylen asked. “You hated it there even more than I did! You committed crimes worthy of immediate execution in order to escape, and you’d _go back_?”

“Turns out I don’t have much in the way of useful skills,” Jowan replied. “There’s little call in the world for a mage being hunted by the Chantry, and less for one who barely knows which end of an axe you use to chop wood.”

“Noticed that, did you?” Daylen said dryly. “I’ve noticed how many useful spells Wynne and Morrigan know that our generation was never taught. Almost as if they’re trying to keep up the image that all we’re good for is combat, healing, or enchanting.”

“That’s not true,” Wynne insisted.

“Oh, come off it,” Jowan spat. “Most mages in our generation couldn’t so much as boil a pot of water without having to use a fireball.”

“We’re getting off topic,” Daylen interjected. “You wanted to get back to the Circle where you at least knew how to do things. The fact that the Templars would arrange an accident for you within a week of getting back if they didn’t just kill you on sight aside, you made the deal with Loghain, or at least someone claiming to work for him.”

“I did. But he abandoned me here, didn’t he? Everything’s fallen apart! I never thought it would end like this!” Jowan stood in the cell and paced, throwing up his hands. “Maker, I’ve made so many mistakes. I disappointed so many people…I wish I could go back and fix it. I just want to make everything _right_ again.”

“I thought you said you didn’t start this?” Daylen asked.  “I mean, it’s good to hear you say that, but I think that this is one time you weren’t really responsible for the mess!”

“But I had a hand in it, didn’t I? _I_ poisoned the arl, and that’s when this all started. So many people died here, because I made a bad choice. The arl’s a decent man. A good father, a good husband, a good ruler, from what I’ve seen. He loves Lady Isolde dearly. I wondered how he could possibly be the threat Loghain said he was, but I did it anyway. I’m such a fool.”

“There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who thinks he’s doing the right thing,” Daylen said quietly.

Jowan rolled his eyes. “Oh, do you ever get tired of saying that?”

“I get more tired of having reason to say it, mate,” Daylen snorted. “What happened after the Arl fell ill?”

“At first, Lady Isolde came here with her men demanding that I reverse what I’d done. I thought she meant my poisoning of the arl, but she was talking about the walking dead. That was the first I heard of them. She thought I’d summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe. She…had me tortured. I’ve managed to heal most of the damage she did, but there was nothing I could say or do that would appease here. So they left me to rot. It’s a good thing she did leave me down here, I suppose. That door has held the creatures at bay.”

“It makes sense,” Daylen mused. “Connor could have accidentally sundered the Veil – or worse, made a deal – to try to save his father.”

“And that’s all the information I have,” Jowan admitted. “I don’t know if it’s a demon he contacted directly, or what kind. I wish I could do something to help from down here, something to set things right, but I just don’t know what to do!”

There was a long pause as Daylen stared at the imprisoned mage and Jowan studiously avoided eye contact.

“Jowan,” the mage said softly. “Why?”

“Why'd I turn to it in the first place?” Jowan shook his head bitterly. “You'll laugh at me. It's because...because of you, really.” Daylen glared at him, and Jowan held up his hands pleadingly before continuing. “I was always envious of your ability. Everything was easy for you! I knew I'd never be as great a mage as you are.”

“That's rubbish, but we'll get to that in a minute. Go on. How'd you get into it.”

“In a moment of weakness, I thought blood magic would give me more power, more control. Isn't that stupid?”

“Uldred taught you the basics?” Jowan nodded. “I thought so. Tosser threw you to the wolves to hide the rest of the blood mages he had been training.” The blood mage grimaced, and Daylen shrugged. “It doesn't matter. He's dead now. All this, because you were jealous?”

“Ah, I knew it was wrong the minute I started,” Jowan admitted. “I swore never to use it again. And then Lily came along...she loved me for who I am, flaws and all. For a short time, I was happy with who I was. And blood magic was behind me. And then...then we heard about the Rite of Tranquility. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Jowan, you've been more family to me than my own family ever was, but you're a sodding idiot sometimes,” Daylen said flatly.

Jowan snorted. “I know. Why this time?”

There was a moment's pause before the dam broke. “Everything was easy for me?” Daylen asked incredulously. “I worked my arse off to get where I am! You _know_ that! Don't you _dare_ put the responsibility for your envy on me! Yes, I'm sorry I made you feel inadequate! I _had_ to be as good as I am! You know the stakes for a mage. It's perfection or death.”

“Or Tranquility,” Jowan said quietly.

Daylen's face twisted. “I spoke with Irving. They were _never_ going to give you the Rite until Uldred turned over the evidence of your practicing blood magic. But that's not the point. You're a good mage, Jowan. You always were. And...” Daylen exhaled, angrily scrubbing his face with his hands. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I made you feel inadequate. I'm sorry I drove you to this.”

“It's no one's fault but mine, I suppose,” Jowan said. “No one forced my hand. I'm grateful you stuck with me through everything at the Circle. And I'm sorry if I've let you down.”

Daylen snorted. “Jowan, had you come to me first...had you leveled with me...we could have, _would have_ , avoided all this. I wouldn't have cared about your using it.” Wynne glared at Daylen, but the Warden ignored it. “I would have been afraid for you, since that's about as good a way as possible to get yourself killed. Frankly, I was impressed that you stood up for yourself to Greagoir, to Irving, that you took action. But your lying to me? Hiding blood magic from me? That...that broke something. I don't know if you're the same person who was my best friend in the tower. I can't help but feel some pity towards you, though.”

“Why?”

“Because you had everything to lose in your escape, and lost it all. And when I left the tower, I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. The one thing I _didn't_ have to work for was getting recruited.” Daylen gave Jowan an impish smile. “It would have been less trouble had you asked Duncan to recruit you.” The two shared a laugh at that.

Jowan leant back against the wall of his cell. “So, now what.”

“Now, the real question is, what do I do with you,” Daylen sighed. "Jowan, you were my best friend for more than ten years. Maker knows I should ignore that, with all the trouble you caused." He looked mournfully at the mage for a long pause. "But I can't.” Pressing a pair of sovereigns into the mage's hand, Daylen talked quickly. “Go to our camp, just to the south of the village. Tell Bodahn - that’s the dwarf who _doesn't_ look like he's been brained with a rock - that I sent you and that I owe you a few parting gifts. Take what he gives you and start running. Find some place far away from all this nonsense and start fresh.” Cuffing the mage upside the head, Daylen pointed back down the tunnel. “Go now. Don't enter the village, and for your sake don't come back towards the castle.”

“You’re letting him go?” Wynne asked incredulously. “After all he’s done?”

“Hardly,” Daylen said. “I’m invoking the Right of Conscription.” He leaned over to Alistair. “We can do that, right?”

Alistair stared at him for a moment. “Sure, I suppose. But him?”

Daylen cleared his throat. “Right then. Jowan, as of now, you’re a Grey Warden recruit. But you’re also out of reach of the Chantry. Provided the Templars listen to the ‘I’m a Grey Warden’ before taking your head off. So congratulations, I’ve just given you a new reason to be hunted down.”

Jowan’s tone was so dry it was collecting dust. “Oh my, another one for the list.”

The mage laughed, shaking his head. “Get out of here, and go to ground. We can’t exactly put you through the Joining yet, so you’ll have to work on your own for a bit. However, after this is over…come find me.” Daylen extended a hand, and Jowan swallowed hard, before he pulled Daylen into a hug.

“Thank you, my friend,” Jowan whispered.

“Jowan?”

“Yes?”

“You’re getting blood on me.”

The two broke apart hurriedly, and Jowan smoothed his robes down. “Thank you again. We will see each other again, I promise you. In happier times, I should hope.”

Daylen jerked his head at the direction they had come from. “Go on, get out of here.” He met the disbelieving stares Wynne and Alistair were giving him as Jowan left. “All right, all right, be mad at me later. Let’s just go fix this mess.”

The group fought their way through the dungeon and cellars of the castle, finding only a handful of undead left. Clearing the cellars room by room was slow, but simple enough – they would open the door, any undead inside would charge, and a mage would freeze them in place before the warriors and rogues went to work.

“Alistair, do you know where we are?” Daylen asked quietly as they came to another stairwell. “Just how big are these cellars anyway?”

“This leads up to the main floor,” Alistair replied. There was a clatter at the top of the stairs, and Alistair drew his sword just in time for an undead to come tumbling down the stairs. Offhandedly beheading the creature, the warrior went on. “Upstairs there will be several larger rooms. We’ll be able to spread out more. The upper floor has the personal quarters. The barracks will be on the main floor.”

Alistair led the way up the stairs, his shield held in front of him in case any more undead took a header down the stairs. The room ahead was clear, and the group spread out along the hall. Zevran hissed, his ear against a door, and Daylen leveled his staff at the door, Alistair close behind him. Zevran wrenched the door open, and Daylen was halfway through casting another frost spell when he realized the figure on the other side of the door was human. And screaming.

“Please don’t hurt me!” the woman cried.

“Be silent!” Daylen hissed. “You’re safe. We’re not going to hurt you!”

“I’m sorry,” the woman whimpered. “I’m so frightened! These monsters are everywhere!”

Daylen gave her a pointed look. “Then be quiet, so you don’t let them know we’re here. Now, who are you?”

“My…my name’s Valena, the arlessa’s maid. Is she…all right? What happened to everyone?”

“Last I saw, the arlessa was alive, but she lied to me about what was going on, so pardon my lack of concern for her,” Daylen replied. “You said your name was Valena? Owen’s daughter?”

“You know my father?” Daylen nodded. “I want to go back to the village! Is there a way out of here?”

“Make a run for it,” Daylen said. “The way is clear. Go down that hallway, through the cellars and dungeons, and out the tunnel. You’ll find yourself at the mill. It should be clear from there.”

The woman all but sprinted off, babbling thanks, and Daylen shrugged, the group moving on.

As Daylen nudged open a door, he jerked back. “Shades! Wynne, Morrigan, hit them now!” Twin crashes echoed off the walls as both mages cast, and the shades dissolved, the strongest of the bunch staggering on a bit farther before collapsing. “Demons in the castle Chantry. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“We’ll have to double back,” Alistair said, looking around. “We’re at the…southwest corner, I think. Let’s go.” The group cut through a quiet sitting area, a fire still lit in the fireplace, and killed another handful of the undead in the next room. “The mabari kennels are on the left,” the warrior murmured. “Up ahead we’ve got the kitchen areas and the dining hall.”

Cupcake was nervously pawing at the door to the kennels, and Daylen winced as he heard growling from inside. “Oh, dear.”

A few frantic minutes later, Daylen looked mournfully at the corpses of the recently deceased mabari. “The demons _possessed mabari_? Isn’t there some sort of a line?”

“Apparently not,” Alistair said quietly. “We can cut down the hall here out to the courtyard and let the knights in.”

Clearing out the next several rooms was more tedious than dangerous between the mages’ ability to turn any enemies into ugly ice sculptures and the highly effective blades of the warriors and rogues. It was only when they emerged into the courtyard that things got messy. Daylen, lagging behind and still weakened from the strain of defending the village, suddenly found himself flying through the air, yanked by a revenant’s spell, his staff falling from his hands mid-flight. He tumbled to a halt in front of the revenant and rolled aside as the creature’s greatsword came down.

Casting a defensive spell, Daylen’s skin hardened as he bolted to his feet, ducking another swing from the revenant and stumbling back as the creature followed up with a strike to his chest with its shield. The greatsword came down, and Daylen reflexively blocked with his arm, feeling the bone splintering under the impact and howling in pain. His arm stopped the strike, strengthened by the defensive magic, and Daylen grabbed the revenant by the wrist with his good arm and winced at the bitter cold emanating from the possessed corpse. Channeling lightning into the revenant’s body, he grinned for a moment in grim satisfaction as the creature thrashed, before coughing out a pained breath as it slammed the shield into his face, sending him tumbling across the courtyard again.

Daylen came to a stop against the stone outer wall of the keep, his nose bleeding freely and his vision blurring. Blood trickled from a cut over his eye, and Daylen pushed himself to his feet with his working arm, spotting a release for the gate’s counterweight nearby. Wrenching the lever, Daylen watched as the gate opened, Ser Perth leading several knights into the courtyard. “Knights! We could use some help here!”

“Follow me, men!” Ser Perth ordered, bellowing out a battle cry as he charged the revenant.

Daylen spotted his companions wiping out the last of the walking corpses as the knights went to work on the revenant, Ser Perth himself easily parrying the creature’s attacks as the revenant found itself on the defensive. It stabbed its blade into the ground to cast a spell, and one of the knights managed to hook an axe’s head around the revenant’s shield, ripping it away and sending it skidding across the paving stones.

The revenant backhanded the knight, sending him stumbling away, and was trying to retrieve its sword when Ser Perth’s blade neatly removed its head. The body dropped, and Daylen staggered over to Wynne, feeling blood running into his beard.

“Can’t you stay out of trouble?” Wynne asked, healing a nasty slash Alistair had taken across the cheek. The warrior probed at the new flesh, giving Wynne a grateful nod and moving off to help Leliana with the post-fight looting.

“I would love to stay out of trouble,” Daylen replied, gingerly extending his arm. “Do you think the Blight would just fuck off by itself?”

The woman tutted at his language, but cleared up his wounds in a matter of minutes as Ser Perth’s knights checked over the undead, making sure there were no surprises lying in wait.

“My men and I are eager to see our arl again,” Ser Perth said as everyone regrouped. “Shall we enter the main hall together? It must be held if we are to regain control of the castle.”

Daylen shook his head. “My companions and I will continue into the castle. We have cleared the cellars and the dungeon already, as well as a portion of the main floor, but I need you and your knights to hold this entrance. If we fail, if the flow of undead resumes…” Daylen shook his head. “You’ll need to destroy the entrance and seal everything and everyone inside until reinforcements enough to clear the castle out can be found.”

“That would mean sacrificing all of you,” Perth protested.

“If it comes to that, we’ll all be dead anyway,” Daylen replied. “Ser Perth, I’m only bringing this up as an absolute last resort. But I want your word. If it comes to it, the safety of Redcliffe comes first.”

The knight sighed. “Very well. We will hold the courtyard. And if we must, we will seal the castle away.”

“Good. Hopefully, we’ll be back soon.” Then they entered the main hall, and things just got _weird_.

It started with the group finding Bann Teagan, who had seemed a reasonably well-balanced man, dancing like a fool and rolling about on the ground. Then they noticed Isolde standing and watching with a miserable look on her face, and standing next to her, a young boy, clapping.

Then the boy spoke, and a chill went down Daylen’s spine. All three mages stood straighter at the boy’s voice – far too deep for a human. “So these are our visitors? The ones you told me about, Mother?”

“Yes, Connor,” Isolde stammered.

“And this,” he said, pointing at Daylen, “is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?”

“Yes.” Daylen raised an eyebrow, but remained silent, noting how Connor’s face seemed bruised and mottled in places.

“And now it’s staring at me! What is it, Mother? I can’t see it well enough!”

“This…this is just a man, Connor,” Isolde said quietly. “Like your father…”

“Oh, I’m tired of hearing about him!” Connor snapped. “Besides, he’s nothing at all like father! Look at him! Breathing and not dying in the slightest!” The boy’s eyes widened. “I could change that, mind you…”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Daylen replied tightly.

“Connor, I beg you, don’t hurt anyone!”

Suddenly, the boy clutched at his head, stumbling back a step. “Mother?” His voice had returned to a level normal for a human boy, and he looked at Isolde, his hands trembling. “What’s happening? Where am I?”

“Oh, thank the Maker!” Isolde cried, clearly believing a miracle had occurred. “Connor! Connor, can you hear me?”

Connor’s face slid back into a glare. “Get away from me, fool woman!” His voice had returned to the abnormal register. “You are beginning to _bore_ me.”

“I get the feeling that’s not a euphemism for anything good,” Daylen growled, crossing his arms.

“Grey Warden,” Isolde pleaded, looking to him. “Please don’t hurt my son! He’s not responsible for what he does!”

Daylen glared at her. “You lied to me. A lot. So he’s the evil force you spoke of. And you’ve been protecting him this entire time?”

“Connor didn’t mean to do this! It was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon – he started all this! He summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!”

“No, that mage didn’t do this, or the demon would have possessed him,” Daylen said. It was a half-truth, but Isolde didn’t need to know that. “You can’t trade someone else in a deal like that. This was all Connor. He brought the demon.”

“It was a fair deal!” Connor insisted, his face twisted in a derisive sneer. “Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it’s my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!”

“Nobody tells him what to do!” Teagan echoed from the floor. “Nobody!” He fell into peals of laughter.

“Quiet, uncle,” Connor snarled. “I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn’t I? Yes, I did.” He looked to Daylen. “But let’s keep things civil. This man will have the audience he seeks. Tell us, what have you come here for?”

“Put simply, to stop you,” Daylen replied matter-of-factly. “Unless you want to be destroyed, I’d suggest you let the child go and scamper off back to whatever Fade-born pisshole you crawled out of.”

“I’m not finished playing!” Connor roared. “You can’t make me stop! I think it’s trying to spoil my fun, Mother!”

Isolde blanched. “I don’t think-”

“Don’t kill him,” Daylen said softly to his companions as Connor ranted at his mother.

“This man spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village,” Connor went on, “and now he’ll repay me!” He sprinted off down a hallway, Isolde scurrying out of the way as Teagan and several entranced guards charged at the group.

Wynne’s staff twirled, and the charging enemies froze in place, paralyzed by a handful of glyphs. “They will not last long, Warden, act quickly!”

“This isn’t blood magic, the Litany of Adralla won’t do us any good,” Daylen thought aloud. “Would knocking them out work?”

A conjured lump of stone answered his question as one of the guards fell backwards, blood streaming from his face. The others quickly followed suit at the ends of blunt strikes and mailed fists.

“Heal them and wake them up one at a time,” Daylen said quietly. “Start with one of the guards.”

Morrigan cast a quick spell on the guard nearest her. “He will sleep until we awaken him.”

“Good,” Daylen replied. “Do the rest. Wynne, pick one as a test. We need to make sure they’re free of that demon’s control.”

Unfortunately, Isolde was already shaking Teagan awake. “Teagan! Teagan, are you all right?”

Daylen grimaced. “He could be enthralled for all you know!”

Teagan rose slowly, shaking his head. “I am…better now, I think. My mind is my own again.”

“Blessed Andraste,” Isolde said. “I would never have forgiven myself had you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!” She turned around to see Daylen biting down on one of his gauntlets, the mage clearly infuriated. “Please! Connor’s not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!”

Daylen took his hand away from his mouth, exhaling slowly and trying not to simply immolate the idiotic woman. “You knew about this all along.”

“I…yes. I didn’t tell you because I believed we could help him,” Isolde admitted. “I still do.”

“Are you an expert on demons and possession?” Daylen asked. The arlessa shook her head. “Then how is what you believe relevant?” Glancing over at Wynne, he jerked his head at the unconscious guards. “Heal them and wake them up.”

“Clearly, the boy is an abomination,” Morrigan chimed in as Wynne set to work. “There is only one way to stop it.”

“He is not always the demon you saw,” Isolde pleaded. “Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please, I just want to protect him!”

Daylen gritted his teeth and shook his head, trying not to scream in frustration. “And in trying to hide this, you’ve caused the deaths of half of Redcliffe!”

“Isn’t that what started this?” Teagan asked pointedly. “You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret…to protect him.”

“If they discovered Connor had magic, then they’d take him away!” Isolde shot back. “I thought if he learned just enough to hide it, then…”

Daylen sighed. “I understand that. You were doing what any decent parent would do – you tried to protect your child. But after the dead began to rise…you had to know, this had gone beyond hiding.”

The bann’s eyes narrowed. “Do you not realize what you’ve done, Isolde?” Teagan seethed. “Eamon lies at death’s door – he may already be dead! Connor may be beyond help! All because of you!”

“Eamon would only demand we do the right thing!” Isolde shouted. “I was _not_ going to lose my son! Not to…to magic!”

Daylen coughed, leaning on his staff. “Considering magic is a strong part of you still having an arling, you might want to show a little appreciation. Or at least not be rude.”

“Magic…runs in my family,” Isolde admitted. “The ones who had it were all terrible, sinful men. I didn’t know what to do when I found out!”

“Here’s a hint,” Daylen retorted. “If you refer to the thing you’re _not_ doing as ‘the right thing,’ _maybe you should reconsider your actions!_ ”

“And so you brought doom upon us all,” Teagan spat. “And death to your own son!”

Isolde burst into tears. “No, no please! There must be another way! There must be something we can do!”

Daylen rubbed the back of his gauntlet over his eyes. “All right, all right, enough. I have some questions, and this time, I want honest answers! Where is Connor now? Why did he run?”

“I think he ran upstairs, to the family quarters,” Teagan offered.

“Violence…scares him,” Isolde added. “I know that sounds strange. He may have run up to his room, or…”

“Or he might be waiting for us to come looking, because he’s _bloody possessed_?” Daylen asked acidly.

“I don’t know. The fighting may have scared Connor into…coming out again, and so he ran.”

“So you’re saying he may be vulnerable?” Teagan asked.

Daylen winced at Teagan’s choice of words. Isolde hung her head. “I…perhaps. Is there…is there no other way?”

“Where is Arl Eamon?” Daylen asked.

“Upstairs, in his room,” Isolde supplied. “I think the demon has been keeping him alive.”

“So if we destroy the demon,” Teagan asked slowly, “then…”

“Then my husband may perish, yes.”

“We’re rather short on options here,” Daylen mused.

“I wouldn’t normally suggest slaying a child,” Alistair said, “But…he’s an abomination. I’m not sure there’s any choice.”

“We can’t kill a young boy, demon or no demon,” Leliana objected. “Please don’t say we’re considering that!”

“Leliana, many of the abominations we killed at the Circle were once young children,” Daylen ground out. “I recognized their faces. Connor’s age has nothing to do with this.”

Teagan sighed. “Connor is my nephew, but…he is also possessed by a demon. Death would be…merciful.”

“No!” Isolde cried. “What…what about the mage? He could know something of this demon! If he still lives, we could speak to him!”

“Jowan doesn’t know a thing about demons that I don’t,” Daylen snapped. “We were classmates at the Circle.” He clenched his staff tighter in both hands, the wood creaking under his grip. “We may not have a choice.”

“This isn’t his fault!” Isolde pleaded. “Please, don’t hurt him!”

Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, it actually  _is_ his fault. Well, frankly, it’s your fault for bringing in an apostate blood mage to teach your son to hide his magic from your husband, but that’s not the point. It really is Connor’s fault – he did sunder the Veil here, and he does seem to have made a deal to save his father – but fault isn’t important. I don’t know of any way to get rid of the demon without killing him.”

Isolde flew into fresh hysterics, and Morrigan cleared her throat. “It isn’t our only option.”

Daylen’s head snapped around so quickly his neck audibly cracked. “ _What?_ ”

“Killing the child is the quickest course, but I suppose it is possible to save him. Since the boy surrendered himself to the demon willingly, he can still be saved,” Morrigan explained. “The demon can be confronted and destroyed in the Fade, thereby saving Connor.” Daylen’s eyes widened, and Morrigan went on. “So no, there was no way to save those mages at the Circle. The unwillingly possessed are lost. This would be a demon of desire, which only helps our cause – a more powerful demon would be better able to possess him without mutilating him.”

“Fighting the demon in the Fade would be possible,” Wynne agreed . “But to do that, we’d need lyrium and several mages.”

“Both of which are a quick boat ride across the lake away,” Daylen breathed. “We could send one of us into the Fade and kick the stuffing out of that demon.” He looked to the Arlessa. “We may be able to save your son. The Circle owes me a favor.”

“What do you mean?” Teagan asked, baffled at the quick shift in conversation. “The demon is within Connor, is it not?”

“No, it lies in the Fade and controls the boy from there,” Morrigan replied. “We can follow that connection, however, and do battle with its true form.”

Isolde finally seemed to understand. “So you can enter the Fade? And kill the demon without hurting my boy?”

“Is it safe to do this?” Teagan asked. “What if the demon comes forth again?”

Daylen paced. “What options do we-” his eyes fell upon Wynne. “Wynne, how long can you keep that barrier spell in place?”

“You intend to seal the demon away from the rest of the castle?” Wynne asked.

Daylen nodded. “It’s the best option we have. Do you think you have the strength to keep it up long enough for us to get back?”

“Provided you are not delayed, yes,” Wynne replied. “If it means saving this boy’s life…” She stood straighter. “Leave me some lyrium potions and a comfortable chair and I will keep that barrier in place as long as you need.”

“All right, we have a plan now,” Daylen said. “Alistair, Zevran, Morrigan, stay with Wynne. Sten, Leliana, Cupcake, come with me. We need a boat.”

—ROTG—

“All right, that is  _it_!” Leliana shouted. “Don’t you have some sort of spell to settle your stomach?”

Daylen shakily wiped his mouth, feeling his stomach flipping again. “What’s the problem? I didn’t throw up on you this time.”

“No, but hearing it is making  _me_ feel ill!”

“Relax,” the boatman said from the rear of the vessel. “We’re almost there, Warden.”

“Thank goodness,” Daylen muttered. Cupcake whined and pawed at his shoulder, licking his cheek. “Thanks, pup.”

The boat bumped against the dock and Leliana leapt from the boat, landing easily and striding down the dock. Daylen clambered out, whistling for Cupcake to follow him. Sten stomped onto the dock, his plate armor glinting in the noonday sun.

They bypassed the guard at the door easily, the Templar recognizing the group and wisely getting out of the way.

The Circle was still a mess, with a temporary command center that was looking increasingly permanent set up in the entry hall.

“Warden,” Greagoir said stiffly as Daylen approached. “What brings you back here?”

“Business,” Daylen replied bluntly. “I need to speak with Irving. You haven’t got him locked up someplace, have you?”

Greagoir gave him a dirty look and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where Irving was speaking with a group of enchanters. “Daylen,” Irving greeted the man warmly. “What brings you back to the Circle?”

Daylen spoke without preamble. “Can the Circle spare a handful of mages to go to Redcliffe and save a possessed child?”

“Save a possessed – do you intend to fight the demon in the Fade?” Daylen nodded. “The child has willingly made a deal?” Daylen nodded again. “The Circle will be there. We will need a fair amount of lyrium and several enchanters. How much time do we have?”

Daylen winced. “How much time do you need?”

“I shall gather what mages I can and we shall leave promptly,” Irving declared. “A life is at stake.”

It took another boat to get everyone and everything they would need back across Lake Calenhad, and the group of mages drew some attention passing through the village. “Well, the bridge is still standing,” Daylen noted as they approached the castle. “Either we’re just in time, or way too late.”

Zevran met them at the gate. “That was quick,” he remarked, passing over a bag to the Warden.

“Tell that to my queasy stomach,” Daylen growled, stuffing the bag into his satchel. “Any developments?”

“The boy is upstairs. He retreated to the Arl’s room when spotted. Wynne is holding the barrier there.”

“Well, we’ve got what we need,” Daylen declared as they entered the castle. “We can chase that demon down and destroy it.”

“Ah, Warden,” Zevran said, hesitating. “Not that I do not support this venture, not that I do not intend to fulfill my oath, but I feel I have spent far too much time in the Fade as it is.”

Daylen snorted. “Relax, Zevran. It has to be a mage. So unfortunately we can’t use your devastating sex appeal to charm the demon into leaving.”

The elf grinned. “Your loss.”

They entered the main hall and found Morrigan waiting for them. “Warden,” the witch said quietly. “I would ask something of you.”

Zevran took one look at the female mage’s face and glanced at Daylen. “I will alert Wynne that you have returned.”

Daylen glanced at the mages that were preparing around them, noting that they were pointedly avoiding his eyes. “Better make it quick. What’s on your mind, Morrigan?”

“I…” She hesitated. “You realize the risk you run by confronting the demon directly.”

“Possession,” Daylen replied simply. “Why do you bring this up? This venture was your suggestion.”

“I didn’t anticipate it would be  _you_  making the journey,” Morrigan snapped, before looking away.

Daylen didn’t bother hiding his smile. “So you  _do_  care.”

“I care about completing this task,” the mage insisted, crossing her arms in front of her. “You being possessed would hinder that. So do not be _stupid_. Having to follow Alistair would be irritating.”

“Morrigan,” Daylen said softly. “What is it you’re asking?”

The witch paused, shifting her weight from one leg to the other for a few moments before looking him in the eyes. “I…please. Come back safe.”

Daylen nodded. “You have my word.” He paused, realizing there was something to take care of while he still had time. “Before I go, there’s something I’ve been meaning to do.”

“That being?”

In response, Daylen leaned in, and Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? ‘Tis a rather odd discussion you seem to desire, leaning in so closely.”

Daylen stopped, and spotted the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Do you object?”

“Not unless you stop,” she replied playfully, moments before his lips met hers.

It was electric. A graceful choir began to sing and were quickly drowned out by the pounding in his ears as Daylen’s blood raced, Morrigan’s hand sliding into his hair and pulling him closer. Daylen wasn’t sure how long they had been standing there, his arms around her waist, when someone cleared their throat off to his right. Holding out a hand, Daylen signaled for them to wait, and it felt like another day passed before he finally broke the kiss, noting with no small measure of satisfaction that Morrigan's lips were puffy and she seemed slightly dazed. He looked up, spotting Irving standing there looking deeply amused. “Yes?” Daylen rasped.

“We are ready.”

—ROTG—

Everyone regrouped in the main hall of the castle, and Daylen paced nervously. “We have brought lyrium and begun preparations for the ritual,” Irving declared. “We can start anytime and send the mage of your choosing into the Fade.”

“Only one person can go?” Daylen asked.

“Yes. We haven’t sufficient lyrium at present to send more than one mage into the Fade.” He looked pointedly at Daylen. “Much of our stock was recently purchased.”

“Believe me, it’s beyond usability now,” Daylen murmured.

“We only have enough lyrium for one attempt as it is,” Irving went on. “I hope you succeed. Such a young lad deserves better than execution.”

“Let’s get this done, then,” Daylen said.

“I’m glad we decided to take this route,” Alistair replied. “It really is the best option.”

“It’s the only option,” Daylen growled. “I’m not putting that boy to death.”

“Very well,” Irving said. “I assume you are going into the Fade. Or did you have someone else in mind?”

“I’m going,” Daylen replied immediately.

The First Enchanter nodded. “Good. Let us get the ritual underway, then.”

“Believe it or not,” Daylen said, taking a seat, “This isn't the first time I've done this.”

“What?” Alistair asked incredulously, standing clear as the Circle mages took places around Daylen. “What did you get up to at the Circle?”

Daylen gave him a nervous smile, trying not to look at the amount of lyrium being brought into the room. “Not having been a full-fledged Templar, you wouldn't know this, but every single Harrowed mage has faced down a demon and come out on top.”

Alistair blinked in surprise. “You’re joking.”

The Warden shook his head. “Not in the least. The Harrowing sends you into the Fade alone, unarmed, and with no knowledge of what you're supposed to do besides survive against a demon. I apparently set a record for the quickest, cleanest Harrowing. Plus, I fought several demons on my own while we were stuck in the Fade back at the Circle. So while I've never had to slap a demon so hard it un-possessed someone, I've got experience in fighting demons on their own turf.”

“Glad we're sending an expert,” Alistair muttered.

“You and me both,” Daylen said, nodding to Irving. “Let's do it, First Enchanter.”

“Good luck, child,” the older man said.

Daylen winked at him, forcing a grin. “Keep my seat warm. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes…just wait longer.”

The mages began chanting, the lyrium in the buckets glowing brighter as their magic began to draw on it. Daylen closed his eyes, trying to relax. Then his eyes snapped open as the feeling like he had just been dropped into a barrel of icy water washed over him. The world dissolved into blinding white light, Daylen heard a ringing in his ears that was nearly deafening, and it felt like the world had dropped out from under him, sending him hurtling downwards.

Then the light faded, and Daylen sat up, his head spinning. Trying not to contemplate the possible consequences of losing his lunch in the Fade, he cast a handful of defensive spells, feeling his skin hardening and his companion wisp orbiting around him. His arcane shield bloomed into place, and Daylen was about to begin pumping mana into the space around himself when he felt a sudden pull on his magic. Gritting his teeth, he drew his staff. “All right, still not back to full strength. Wonderful.”

It only took a few minutes of wandering the Fade, apologizing to rocks he stumbled over or gnarled trees he passed by, before he found a person. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Connor.

“Connor? Son, are you there?” Daylen looked over, spotting a bearded man with graying hair standing unnaturally still in the fog. “Help me!”

“Who are you?” Daylen asked, approaching the man.

“Hold, stranger,” the man commanded. “I do not know you, nor where we are.”

“You must be Arl Eamon,” Daylen realized. “Look, my name is Daylen Amell. I’m a Grey Warden. We’re in the Fade.”

“The Fade?” Eamon asked, flabbergasted. “The land of dreams and demons?”

Daylen nodded. “Have you seen your son?”

“My son?” Eamon said, his eyes glazing over. “Connor…my son…it’s been so long since I’ve seen him…”

Daylen cleared his throat. “You need to focus. Connor. Where is Connor?”

“I don’t know…this blasted fog, I tried to find him and I always wind up here!”

“Eamon, Connor is in danger!”

Immediately the Arl’s eyes cleared and he snapped alert. “Where is my son?”

“I’m asking you that!”

“Sometimes, I can hear his voice,” Eamon said. “But I cannot find him. This blasted fog has me turning in circles! He can’t be far, can he?”

“Probably not,” Daylen replied uneasily. “The Fade is odd like that. Arl…your son is a mage.”

The Arl’s eyes widened. “Connor, a mage?” he asked. “How do you know?”

“Because he made a deal with a demon to save your life after you were poisoned. I’m here to kill that demon and save your son.” Daylen shifted his weight uneasily. “Eamon…if I kill the demon, there’s a chance that you may die.”

“Connor comes first,” Eamon replied firmly. “You hear me?  _Connor comes first_! If his freedom means my death, then that is a price I’m willing to pay. I will notlose my son to some blasted demon!” He stepped forward, grabbing Daylen by the shoulders. “You give me your word, Warden. If the choice comes between my son and me, you pick my son.”

Daylen’s face softened. “You have my word.”

The arl nodded. “Find my son, Warden. Bring him home.”

Daylen’s path was clear. Literally – there was only one way to go, the Fade being the mess of floating islands and narrow pathways between high ridges that it was. The Warden groaned when he saw a purple field floating in an arch. “Not this nonsense again. I had enough of this at the Circle!” Sighing, he reached out and touched the field, feeling the magic of the portal pulling him across the Fade.

Daylen staggered forward a step as he emerged from the other side, the portal turning black behind him. Pushing on through the next path, the mage headed up a hill and around a giant tower that looked to have bone growing out of it.

Ahead, he spotted a chair and a bed sitting at the edge of the island. And next to them, a young boy.

“I don’t suppose you’re Connor,” Daylen said as he approached.

“Who are you?” The boy challenged. Daylen’s eyes narrowed as he heard the deep voice of the demon again. “Are you the one that made Father ill? Tell me now!”

“It wasn’t me,” Daylen replied. “Are you truly Connor’s spirit, or the demon in disguise?”

“You could be a demon too!” Connor shot back. “You could be a demon that just looks like a person!”

Daylen opened his mouth to retort, before considering the point. “All right, that’s true. And you could be a guardian of this realm, meant to confuse me. Let’s reason this out calmly.”

“Fool!” the boy snapped, his eyes turning black. “You won’t get near her! I won’t let you!” The boy fell to his knees, his form snapping back and forth between a human boy and the well-endowed and horned form of a Desire demon. It didn’t finish the transformation, the Warden freezing it solid and shattering it with a lump of conjured stone. Rolling his eyes, Daylen turned and headed back down the path, finding the portal reactivated.

“Maybe Eamon has some idea of where to go,” Daylen muttered, touching the portal and finding himself in a completely new location. “All right, it’s official,” he went on. “I hate the Fade.” Making his way down another path, he curled around a narrow turn. “I suppose it’s lucky this demon has so little control over Connor – if it was more powerful I could spend days in here.”

“Why do you keep hurting me?” A voice demanded. Daylen jumped, spotting another Connor standing off to his left. “Why are you trying to stop me?”

“Well, mostly because you’re killing people,” Daylen snapped. “Let the boy go, and you won’t get hurt.”

“You will not find what you seek!” The boy insisted. “Turn back now!”

“You wouldn’t urge me to turn back if you didn’t fear I’d find you,” Daylen pointed out. “Stay right where you are. I’m coming for you.”

“Trespasser!” The boy howled. “I will drive you out!” The demon didn’t make it any farther than the last one did, even with a minor demon of hunger that clawed its way through the ground backing it up.

Hooking back around through the same portal, Daylen glared at the sky as he found himself in another new location. “This is getting really old.” Spotting another Connor standing next to a bookshelf and a bed, Daylen approached, glaring. “You know, the more you try to delay me, the more likely I am to just kill you when I find you.”

“Father wanders, seeking me, trapped within my web,” the demon replied in Connor’s voice. “All is as it should be. Why must you interfere?”

“Because I need Arl Eamon awake and well,” Daylen replied. “Because you interfere where you should not. Because I am _sick_ of blasted demons!”

“No,” Connor replied, clearly not listening. “It is time for you to go now. Do not persist, or things will go very badly for you.”

“Oh, sod off,” Daylen groaned, casting a spell and turning the demon’s mana against it as the demon transformed, wiping out both it and a pair of rage demons it brought to the fight.

A final trip through the portal let Daylen out on another path that fed into an open clearing, several twisted trees scattered around the edges. The Warden spotted a Desire demon’s true form in the clearing and drew his staff, double-checking his defenses were in place.

The demon turned as he approached. Daylen kept his eyes on the demon’s face and not on the free-hanging breasts. “Very well,” the demon purred. “No more illusions. Now we meet face to face. You see my true form and stand in my domain.”

“Bit of a shithole, innit?” Daylen asked lightly, glancing around.

—ROTG—

_Maleficarum  
It has been asked, "What are maleficarum? How shall we know them?" I have been as troubled by this question as you. You have come to me for the wisdom of the Maker, but none have seen the Maker's heart save Beloved Andraste. And so I have done as all mortals must, and looked to the words of His prophet for answers. And there, I found respite from a troubled mind._

_For she has said to us, "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him." Therefore, I say to you, they who work magic which dominates the minds and hearts of others, they have transgressed the Makers law._

_Also, Our Lady said to us, "Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." And so it is made clear to me, as it should be to us all: That magic which fuels itself by harming others, by the letting of blood, is hated by the Maker._

_Those mages who honor the Maker and keep His laws we welcome as our brothers and sisters. Those who reject the laws of the Maker and the words of His prophet are apostate. They shall be cast out, and given no place among us._

_\--From The Sermons of Justinia I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	14. Redcliffe Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get wrapped up in Redcliffe and the group moves on to their next impossible task.

_Abomination  
“We arrived in the dead of night. We had been tracking the maleficar for days, and finally had him cornered... or so we thought._

_As we approached, a home on the edge of the town exploded, sending splinters of wood and fist-sized chunks of rocks into our ranks. We had but moments to regroup before fire rained from the sky, the sounds of destruction wrapped in a hideous laughter from the center of the village._

_There, perched atop the spire of the village chantry, stood the mage. But he was human no longer._

_We shouted prayers to the Maker and deflected what magic we could, but as we fought, the creature fought harder. I saw my comrades fall, burned by the flaming sky or crushed by debris. The monstrous creature, looking as if a demon were wearing a man like a twisted suit of skin, spotted me and grinned. We had forced it to this, I realized; the mage had made this pact, given himself over to the demon to survive our assault.”_

_—Transcribed from a tale told by a former templar in Cumberland, 8:84 Blessed._

_It is known that mages are able to walk the Fade while completely aware of their surroundings, unlike most others who may only enter the realm as dreamers and leave it scarcely aware of their experience. Demons are drawn to mages, though whether it is because of this awareness or simply by virtue of their magical power in our world is unknown._

_Regardless of the reason, a demon always attempts to possess a mage when it encounters one—by force or by making some kind of deal depending on the strength of the mage. Should the demon get the upper hand, the result is an unholy union known as an abomination. Abominations have been responsible for some of the worst cataclysms in history, and the notion that some mage in a remote tower could turn into such a creature unbeknownst to any was the driving force behind the creation of the Circle of Magi._

_Thankfully, abominations are rare. The Circle has methods for weeding out those who are too at risk for demonic possession, and scant few mages would give up their free will to submit to such a bond with a demon. But once an abomination is created, it will do its best to create more. Considering that entire squads of Templars have been known to fall at the hands of a single abomination, it is not surprising that the Chantry takes the business of the Circle of Magi very seriously indeed._

—ROTG—

The demon turned as he approached. Daylen kept his eyes on the demon’s face and not on the free-hanging breasts. “Very well,” the demon purred. “No more illusions. Now we meet face to face. You see my true form and stand in my domain.”

“Bit of a shithole, innit?” Daylen commented, glancing around.

“It is here I am most powerful, and yet I have no wish to engage your power. Nor should you be so eager to engage mine,” the demon warned. “Perhaps we should converse instead?”

“And what, exactly, could I possibly have to talk to you about?” Daylen asked lightly. “Besides what you would like done with your remains if you don’t let Connor go.”

“I possess the boy’s soul,” the demon explained. “We could battle for it, or we could negotiate like civilized beings. If you are smart, you could even come out ahead.” She smiled faintly. “Perhaps there are things _you_ wish for. Let us pause and speak of them. It costs nothing but a moment of your time.”

Daylen could feel a tugging at his mind as the demon’s magic tried to influence him. “I’m willing to talk,” the mage replied finally.

“Good. I prefer reasonable negotiation, whenever possible,” the demon said soothingly. “Your goal is for me to release the boy’s soul, is that right?” Daylen nodded. “What if you could persuade me to leave voluntarily? No fuss and no bloodshed.”

“And why would you do such a thing?” Daylen asked.

“So you will at least, consider it? Let me make a proposition, then,” The demon offered.

“I don’t screw demons,” Daylen replied immediately. “I’ve been propositioned by _many_ people, but I’ve got some standards.”

The demon blinked in confusion for a few moments. “My proposition is this. I abandon the boy…for now. But I retain the contract he and I made, and many years from now I may return and claim what is mine. This will be long after whatever you want is done. In exchange, I will provide something of value to you. Something you desire. We both benefit. What say you?”

“I have a counter-offer,” Daylen suggested.

“I’m all ears,” the demon said gleefully.

Daylen focused, raw mana boiling off his body. Fixing the demon with a withering glare, he kept his tone hard. “How about you release the boy’s soul, leave, never return, and in exchange I do not  _destroy_  you where you stand?”

The demon paused. “I... see. Though you are alone in my domain, I have no doubt of your power. I am not one for taking risks. Have it your way. I relinquish my hold on the boy if you allow me to leave unhindered? I can offer nothing better.”

In most cases, Daylen would have merely allowed the demon to depart without further incident. But he was also  _really_ pissed. “Good. Get out of here, and put the word out. If a demon – _any demon_ – ever so much as speaks with that boy _ever_ again, I will come back here and destroy the lot of you, no matter how long it takes. _I will wipe the Fade clean_!”

The demon bristled at Daylen’s words. “You labor under the impression that you could match us.”

“Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe eventually a group of you would beat me, but I can guarantee you wouldn’t live to see it. Now where is Connor?” Daylen growled. A flash, and the boy was revealed, curled into a ball on the ground. Connor looked up, and Daylen whistled, never taking his eyes off the demon. “Connor, I’m here to help you. Get away from the demon.”

“You don’t want that,” the demon purred. “Your father’s life depends on me.”

“That’s a lie,” Daylen snapped. “Connor, demons will say whatever will make you agree. I’m begging you, step away from it. I can save your father!”

“He lies,” the demon said. “He has no power to save life in your world.”

“Connor, your mother asked me to come here and save you,” Daylen replied, trying to remain calm. “Connor, if we don’t throw this demon out and get you back safe, they  _will_ kill you.” Connor blanched.

“If you go, your father dies!” The demon warned.

Daylen leaned down and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Connor, you should never fear a demon. Distrust them, ignore them, destroy them if you have to, but never fear them or what they say.” He glared at the demon. “And you! Be silent! You cannot harm me, and you will not harm him!”

There was a long pause. Then Connor turned to the Warden and took his hand. “I want to go home,” the boy said.

“Good,” Daylen replied, before glaring at the demon. “Last warning, demon. Leave or be destroyed!”

The demon gave him one final glare. “Fine.” It vanished in a brief flash of light.

Daylen waited a few moments to make sure the demon was gone, before looking to Connor. “When you wake up, I’ll be there.” The Fade around them began to glow brighter, and Daylen gave the boy a quick smile. “Don’t worry, this happens.”

Daylen’s eyes snapped open in the real world, and the Warden jerked forward in the chair and squeezed his eyes shut as his head throbbed. “Warden, are you well?” Irving asked.

Daylen squinted up at the First Enchanter, giving him a crooked grin. “Did I set another record?”

—ROTG—

Most of what remained of the village was gathered on the docks at Redcliffe, the dead being loaded onto boats and pushed out into the lake. The Revered Mother was leading a group prayer as a trio of archers lit arrows and ignited the boats as they drifted out into the lake. Bann Teagan was standing off to one side of Isolde and Connor, looking tremendously uncomfortable.

Most of the Warden’s companions were standing with him at the edge of the docks. Leliana and Wynne were tending to the wounded, and Alistair and Zevran had returned to the party’s campsite outside of Redcliffe to make sure they had sufficient supplies to move on.

“So it is over,” Teagan murmured, stepping up next to Daylen and watching mournfully as the burning boats drifted farther into the lake. “Connor is his old self. He does not seem to remember anything, which is a blessing.”

“You must realize he is relatively unique,” Daylen replied. “Very few people ever recover from possession, due in no small part to the Templars insisting that the only way to get rid of a demon is to kill the host. If…” Daylen grimaced. “If he is sent to the Circle, it would be best if that information did not follow him. He would face prejudice from the Templars and the other mages as a result.”

“I suppose we will need to send him to the Circle of Magi’s tower for…training, once the war is over. It’s so odd to think of the boy as a mage, of all things.”

Daylen glanced over at the man’s words, before shaking his head. “We’re not all bad, you know.”

Teagan winced. “I…I know. I am sorry, Warden.”

“It would be safer to keep him here at Redcliffe, for the time being,” Daylen said. “The Circle has faced serious difficulties recently, and the Veil there may be damaged. If it is…well, it is unlikely the Templars would have any interest in making things easier on the mages by relocating, but it’s possible that they could be moved, especially because the Veil being damaged so would put mages at greater risk of possession. They might even settle closer to Redcliffe, making it easier for Eamon and Isolde to see him.”

“Eamon has much to mourn and rebuild, should he recover. But at least he can be thankful that both his son and wife are safe.”

“Speaking of which,” Daylen said, glancing back at Isolde and Connor. “What can be done for Eamon?”

“Not here,” Teagan replied quietly. “Back at the castle.”

—ROTG—

“I owe you my deepest thanks,” Isolde said as soon as they were all ensconced in Eamon’s study. “I can scarcely believe that Connor is the boy he once was.”

“He isn’t,” Daylen replied. “He will never be the same. Nobody is after contact with a demon.”

“But our task is not done yet,” Teagan broke in. “Whatever the demon did to my brother, it seems to have spared his life…but he remains comatose. We cannot wake him.”

“He's only mostly dead, then?” Daylen asked. Alistair nodded. “There’s a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive. With all dead, well, with all dead there’s usually only one thing you can do.”

“What's that?” Teagan asked.

“Go through his clothes and look for loose change.”[1]

“The Urn!” Isolde burst out suddenly. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon!”

“Beg pardon?” Daylen asked. “The Urn is a legend. It might never be found. Isn’t there some other way to heal him? We have two excellent healers on hand. Maybe Wynne and I could heal him.”

“It has been tried and we will continue trying,” Teagan answered. “Perhaps the demon’s absence will make a difference. However, the relic is another option.”

“My husband funded the research of a scholar in Denerim,” Isolde added. “A Brother Genitivi. He has been studying the inscriptions on Andraste’s Birth – why are you laughing?” the arlessa trailed off as Daylen doubled over.

Daylen looked up, tears in his eyes. “Your husband funds Genitivi? He’s a _legend_ at the Circle! He wrote half the texts that we study that aren’t focused on magic!”

The two stared at him for a moment, before Isolde went on. “When Eamon fell ill, I sent the knights to speak to Genitivi. I hoped that he had finally discovered the location of the Urn of Sacred Ashes itself. They were unable to locate Genitivi. In desperation, I sent more knights in search of the brother or some clue of the Urn’s location.”

“And next to none returned,” Daylen finished. “I’ve met a few on the way here.” He considered the situation a moment longer before realizing that there were no other options. “Very well, we’ll see if we can find the Urn. What will you do in the meantime?”

“I must organize Eamon’s knights as they return, draft new soldiers, and prepare the army to fight,” Teagan replied. “I shall hand Redcliffe back to Eamon when he awakens, and in a state where it can be of some use in the coming war. Truly, what other choice do I have?”

“Well, we could all skip town to Antiva and-” Daylen flinched as Alistair punched him in the shoulder. “All right, all right, it’s just an idea!”

“No one else can find the relic,” Teagan went on. “Even if I wished to do it myself, I cannot abandon Redcliffe to its own devices. Perhaps you could seek out the brother’s home in Denerim and see if any clues remain on his whereabouts. It is the only place to begin the search, I think.”

“I would like to speak with Connor, before we go,” Daylen said as Teagan left. Isolde looked uncomfortable. “I only wish to reassure him and give him information he will need to know as a mage.” The arlessa did not look reassured, and Daylen sighed. “Lady Isolde, there is no connection between magic and the quality of one’s character. Connor is his own person. If he knows you love him…he will not falter.”

“Very well, Warden.”

A few minutes later, Connor was looking up at Daylen. “You…” the boy’s eyes widened. “You’re the one who saved me?”

Daylen nodded. “I did, yes.”

“Then…thank you,” Connor said uneasily. “Father always said to remember to thank people who do nice things for you.”

“Connor, I have known a lot of young mages who lost their lives to demons,” Daylen replied softly. “I couldn’t let that happen again. Your story isn’t finished. Once my companions and I end this Blight, you’ll have to go to the Circle, but you’ll be taken care of there.” The Warden looked down at the boy, and realized just what he saw in him. Daylen reached out and gently grabbed his shoulder. “Connor, you need to know this. _It was not your fault_.”

“But I summoned the demon! I can't even remember what I did!”

“All right, first off?” Daylen ticked off his points on his fingers. “You didn't summon anything. Believe me, I've seen demons summoned before. That didn't happen here. You sundered the Veil accidentally and the demon came to you. On that note, Jowan should have taught you better. I knew him at the Circle, he was smarter than that, he should have led with how to protect yourself from demons. You took what you saw as the only option available to you. Unfortunately, that's how demons get you. They offer exactly what you need right when you need it most so that it seems like the only logical choice. The demon did those things, not you.” Connor didn’t look convinced, and Daylen went on. “And you survived. You learned. You're already doing better than many have done. And I have faith in you. You can do better. Get stronger. Get smarter. And the next time a demon tries to offer you something, you'll know to kick its arse.”

Connor stood straighter. “I will, Warden.”

“Daylen, to you.” Daylen ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ll make sure to check in on you, all right?”

—ROTG—

“So we’re off on  _another_ impossible quest to find an ancient religious artifact to heal a dying man,” Daylen groused as the group unpacked. Teagan had invited them to stay the night at the castle so the militia could celebrate with them. “Did everyone forget that we’re trying to stop a Blight here?”

“Well, we  _did_ find an ancient forest spirit and end a centuries-old curse,” Alistair pointed out.

“Two things,” Daylen replied. “One, Isolde didn’t know that. Two, I highly doubt that the Urn of Sacred Ashes has a personal grudge against Eamon and wants to be found so it can confront him.”

“How do you know that?” Alistair challenged. “For all you know, Arl Eamon might have stolen the Urn’s woman years ago! They might be mortal enemies!”

“Boys,” Wynne sighed.

“I know, I know, we were just having a bit of a joke,” Daylen grumbled. “I know why we’re doing this.”

“Because Lady Isolde asked so nicely?”

“Because nobody had any better ideas. When you have to hunt down something that’s been lost for centuries, you definitely have run out of options.” Daylen looked around to make sure the group was alone. “All right, everyone, let’s take stock of what we’ve got. Zevran looted a fair amount of coin, and that should cover us for a time, provided we spend wisely. Our equipment should hold us, and Alistair,” he looked over at the warrior and got a nod in return, “asked the blacksmith to see if he could scrounge together anything he could spare.”

“And he came through,” Alistair replied.

Daylen nodded. “And then some. Wynne, Morrigan, I’ve noticed your boots. Wynne, yours aren’t fit for the weather we’ll be facing when we head into the Frostbacks to Orzammar, and Morrigan, your boots are practically worn through.” He set two fresh pairs of boots on the table. “These _should_ fit you. If they’re uncomfortable, we’ll get you a different set. Leliana, we found you some higher-quality arrows,” he dropped a capped quiver on the table that rattled as Leliana drew it over to her. “They’re enchanted. Hope you like setting things on fire. Zevran, I found some poison reagents and trap materials, I believe I gave them to you earlier.”

“That is correct, Warden,” the elf agreed.

“Sten, I couldn’t find any equipment that would be superior to what you already have, so I asked a favor and found you these,” Daylen went on, passing over a tin. The giant’s eyes widened. “They’re fresh.” There was a moment’s pause, before Sten ripped into the cookies. “Now that we’ve taken care of that, we need to discuss our next move.”

“I take it you have a plan?” Wynne asked, sitting out and unlacing her boots.

“Indeed we do!” Daylen paused, realized he was lying, and then looked to Alistair in a panic. “Um…my colleague.”

The warrior rolled his eyes at his friend, before clearing his throat. “We need to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes to heal Arl Eamon. To do that, we need to find Brother Genitivi. And to do _that,_ we need to go to Denerim. Hopefully, there will be some lead we can use to find him, and he’ll know how to find the Urn.”

“We don’t have another option,” Daylen admitted, leaning back in his chair and bracing his boot on the table, rocking his chair onto its back legs. “Wynne and I have examined Arl Eamon and determined that there’s really nothing that can be done for him that wouldn’t jeopardize his health further. We might heal him, or we might kill him. The poison he was given has no known cure. And Eamon is a powerful political figure – we’ll need his assistance to remove Loghain from power without having to fight the whole blasted army.”

Alistair sighed, before going on. “We’ll need to check out Genitivi’s house in Denerim. That’s the first step. If we catch a boat across the lake, we can cut a week off the trip.”

“More than that, counting all the time we spend killing everyone who thinks this band of misfits is worth taking on,” Daylen replied. “Anyone have any questions?” A brief pause. “Good! Then I guess we’re done here. If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the tavern with the militia tonight.” The others slowly filed out, leaving Alistair alone in the room.

“Well, that went well,” Alistair remarked, stretching out in a chair. “It’ll be nice to sleep in a real bed tonight.”

Daylen looked over at his fellow Warden. “What, did you think we were done? I got everyone else something, you get a present too.”

The warrior’s head popped up. “I do?”

The mage snorted, before fishing around in his satchel. “When we were in Eamon’s study, I found something in the desk.” Gently setting an amulet on the table, Daylen leaned back in his chair again. “I think it might mean something to you.”

Alistair looked hard at the amulet, before gently picking it up. “This…was my mothers. I threw it against the wall…it shattered.”

“Someone glued it back together,” Daylen said.

Alistair turned the amulet over his hands. “Then he must have…found the amulet, after I threw it at the wall. And he repaired it and kept it? I don’t understand. Why would he do that?”

Daylen shifted uncomfortably, rocking forward. “I guess you mean more to him than you think.”

Alistair sat back, looking down at the amulet in his hands. “I…guess you could be right. We never really talked that much, and then the way I left…”

“You told me he raised you,” Daylen pointed out.

Alistair’s shoulders sagged. “I know. I just…”

“You didn’t want to believe that he cared, with how he shipped you off to the Chantry,” Daylen finished, swallowing hard.

“I…” Alistair’s face fell. “I guess.” He tucked the amulet away. “Thank you. I mean it. I…I thought I’d lost this to my own stupidity. I’ll need to talk to him about this. If he recovers from…” the warrior paused, growing resolute. “ _When_ he recovers. I wish I’d had this a long time ago.” He looked over at his friend. “Did you remember me mentioning it? Wow. I’m more used to people not really listening when I go on about things.”

Daylen looked hurt. “You’re my friend. Of course I remembered.”

Alistair flushed. “I don’t know what to say. I’m honored. Thanks again.” He paused, clearly considering something. “You know…maybe this isn’t the best time to be thinking about this, but I’ve something to ask you. I mean, we’ll be heading to Denerim anyway, and when we’re there, I wonder if we might be able to…look someone up.”

“Well, Loghain will get what’s coming to him, I can promise you that,” Daylen replied. “Or do you mean you have a friend outside the Grey Wardens?”

“I’m not talking about a friend, exactly,” Alistair said uneasily. “I mean, the thing is…I have a sister. A half-sister, rather. I told you about my mother, right? She was a servant at the castle here, and she had a daughter. Only I never knew about her. I don’t think she knew about me, either. They kept my birth a secret, after all. But after I became a Grey Warden, I did some checking, and…well, I found out she’s still alive. In Denerim.”

“Have you contacted her?” Daylen asked.

“No. I thought about writing her, but I never did. I didn’t know what to say. And then we were called down to Ostagar and I never got the chance. She’s the only real family I have left, the only family not also mixed up in the whole royal thing. I’ve just been thinking that…maybe it’s time I went to see her. With the Blight coming, and everything, I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to see her.” He made to go on, but Daylen held up a hand.

“Relax, Alistair. We’ll go see her when we’re in Denerim.”

“Good! Great. Erm, her name is Goldanna, and I think she remarried, but still lives just outside the Alienage. If we’re in the area, then…well, it’s worth a look.”

“Consider it done, mate,” Daylen said, standing up and clapping his friend on the shoulder. “For now, let’s go have a round with the victorious defenders of Redcliffe, shall we?”

—ROTG—

“Lloyd,” Daylen greeted the bartender. “How many kegs have you got? Because there are a lot of thirsty blokes here, and I’m buying the first round.”

“Warden,” the barkeep replied. “I don’t know how I survived that damnable mess out there, but I did. I suppose I owe you thanks. The men respect me now. I would never have gone out there if you hadn’t pushed me. It…feels good to help out. Don’t get me wrong,” he went on. “I don’t want to be in battle again anytime soon, know what I mean? But I appreciate what you did.”

“Glad you feel that way,” Daylen replied. “But right now, there’s work to be done. These men are parched! Let’s remedy that!” Thumbing out a few sovereigns, Daylen turned to the crowded tavern and raised his voice. “Defenders of Redcliffe! I made you a promise! We survived the night, we won the day, and the trouble is over!” A roaring cheer went up, and Daylen grabbed a filled tankard as Lloyd set it on the bar and passed it to the nearest man. “Before we drink,” he said, passing out more tankards, “let us have a moment of silence for those who fell in the defense of this village. They gave their lives for something greater.” Finding himself a glass of beer, Daylen raised it. “To our fallen. They will never be forgotten!” Everyone drank, and Daylen let out a hearty belch as he drained half the glass. “Let us celebrate their memory!” A hearty cheer answered him, and Daylen finished his glass, downing two more amongst the militia and the knights before slipping out the door.

“Oh, Maker,” Daylen muttered, swaying slightly as he felt the alcohol taking effect.

The Warden had made his way back to the castle, passing the main hall and heading for the living quarters, when he spotted someone leaning against the wall, arms crossed and waiting for him.

“Do not worry,” Morrigan said. “‘Tis only I.”

“Are you all right?” Daylen asked, igniting a ball of magelight in his hand.

“Yes,” Morrigan replied huskily, approaching him.

Daylen caught a whiff of something overly sweet on her breath and his eyes narrowed. “Morrigan?” She replied by kissing him harshly, and Daylen backed off after a moment. “Are you drunk? I thought you didn’t drink.”

“My bed, ‘tis cold all alone,” she said playfully, tugging at his belt, trying to pull him towards the stairs. “You should join me. It would be warmer.”

Daylen dug in his heels. “Nope. Not happening. Not with you in this condition.”

“My condition has nothing to do with it,” she snapped, reaching for the buckle on his belt. “I wish for you to take me to bed, Warden.”

Daylen grabbed the witch by the wrists. “Morrigan, I would love to. But not while you’re drunk. Period, stop. And if you keep going, I’ll set your foot on fire.”

“Do you realize how infuriating you are?” the woman asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

Morrigan sighed, yanking her arms free. “You insist on coddling those weaker than you, yet your efforts consistently yield results. You insist on doing things that go against everything I have ever been taught and yet _you are constantly right_. Why?”

Daylen opened his mouth, before shrugging. “Just lucky, I guess. Sorry about this.” Clicking his fingers, he cast a spell he had learned from Morrigan earlier in the week. The witch dropped, her eyes fluttering closed as the sleep spell took effect. The Warden hoisted her over his shoulders with a grunt, making for the stairs. “Glad I learned that spell after all.”

—ROTG—

They were less than a day out of Redcliffe when they faced another bandit attack. A half-dozen disorganized fighters with rough leathers and poorly made weapons barely managed to charge the caravan before fireballs, lightning bolts, and arrows violently informed them of how bad an idea it was to attack.

It was only when Wynne keeled over that Daylen began to worry.

The mage sat up as Daylen ran to her, groaning. “I…fell?”

“Are you all right?” Daylen asked, offering her a hand. The enchanter took it, and Daylen pulled her to her feet.

Wynne blinked at him owlishly. “For a moment there, I thought I was…I thought it was all over.”

“The fight is over, if that’s what you mean,” Daylen replied.

“No, I thought _I_ was.” At Daylen’s baffled look, Wynne shook her head. “I will explain everything when we are back at camp. Now is not the time.”

Daylen gave her a hard look. “Very well.”

—ROTG—

As the group set up camp that night, Daylen was still staring at Wynne, glancing over when Alistair approached him. “Now that we’re back at camp, I want to talk about what happened at Redcliffe,” the warrior said. “I just wanted to thank you. You went out of your way to save the arl’s family, and you did it, even though it would have been easier – maybe even smarter – not to.”

Daylen snorted as he laid out the wood for the campfire. “Easier, sure. Smarter? No. And I bet you can tell me why.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Are you making fun of me?  
The Warden shook his head in reply. “Just trying to see if you can reason out why I went out of my way to save Connor.”

Alistair paced for a few moments, thinking. “Well, we need Arl Eamon’s support to end the Blight, but if we killed his child I doubt he’d be very inclined to help us.”

“Rather cynical, mate,” Daylen mused, pushing some tinder under the stacked logs. “Think simpler.”

“You weren’t going to kill Connor if you had another option,” Alistair said immediately.

“Now you’re getting it. I saw enough death at the Circle. I wasn’t going to end Connor’s life if it was at all possible to save him.”

“There’s been so much death and destruction, it…well, it makes me feel good that we at least were able to save something, no matter how small. I owed the arl that much.”

“It would have been easier – safer, in a way – to just kill Connor,” Daylen said, igniting the fire with a click of his fingers. The flames caught, and Daylen leaned back, watching the fire grow. “I’m just glad it didn’t come to that.”

“So am I,” Alistair remarked. “Now that the warm, fuzzy part of the day is over with, we can get back to the ritual dismemberments.” He paused. “Oh, wait, it’s not Tuesday, is it?”

“Monday,” Daylen said, standing up and dusting his hands off on his robes. “Talk to me tomorrow when some idiot decides it’s a good idea to attack the caravan.”

Wynne twitched as Daylen approached. The change in her body language was subtle, but noticeable. “Hello there,” she said warmly, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Are you feeling better now?” Daylen asked.

“Oh, yes, and thank you for asking,” Wynne replied. “I’m feeling much better.”

“Yes, I like making sure all my companions are well. Now, if you’re quite done with that nonsense, how about you tell me what happened back there,” Daylen said, smiling tightly.

“I…yes, I think I owe you an explanation for what happened earlier,” Wynne admitted.

“Yes, you had me quite worried.”

“You should know that…something happened to me at the tower, before you came along,” Wynne said slowly.

Daylen stiffened. “Why do I have a bad feeling.”

“My apprentice, Petra, encountered a demon in the tower. It would have killed her had I not intervened. I saved her life that day, but I did not survive that encounter with the demon.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Daylen said brightly. “This case of death is just taking a while to kick in, then, I suppose.”

“Let me explain fully,” Wynne replied with a sigh.

“That would be novel, thank you.”

Wynne glared at him before continuing. “I engaged a very powerful demon to rescue Petra. It sapped me of all my energy and will, and left me drained. It took everything I had to defeat it, and when I was done I no longer had the strength to keep my heart beating. I remember my life ebbing away; everything receded from me, sound, light, I remember being enveloped in complete, impenetrable darkness. And then I sensed a presence, enfolding me and cradling me, whispering quietly to me. The sensation is impossible to describe. I was being…held back, firmly, but gently, as a mother would a child eager to slip from her grasp. I felt life and warmth flowing through my veins again. I began to be aware of small sounds, and the discomfort of my hip pressing into the cold stone of the tower floor.”

“Wynne, I asked for an explanation, not a story,” Daylen pressed. “It sounds like you simply had a near-death experience. You’re awfully sprightly for a corpse.”

“The Fade contains spirits both benevolent and malicious,” Wynne went on.

“Oh, for Andraste’s sake, would you just _get to the point_?”

“I was saved by a benevolent spirit. Without it, I would be dead. And it has not left me. It is with me, even now, bonded to me.” Daylen flinched. “You see, I am supposed to be dead. It is the spirit that is keeping me in this world, and this is not the way of things. Perhaps the spirit did not expect this, but it is weakening, gradually. I am living on borrowed time.”

Daylen rocked back on his heels, trying to fight the urge to run screaming. “I can’t believe you kept this from me.”

“I didn’t know if you were ready to hear it,” Wynne said defensively. “But now you know.”

“Yes, because the spirit that _is bonded to you_ slipped up and you almost died! How much longer were you going to keep this from me?” Wynne shuffled, and Daylen grimaced. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Why’d the spirit choose to help you? Benevolent spirits don’t typically put in appearances in our world.”

“I have always had an affinity for the spirits of the Fade, even if I never saw them. And as I nurtured my talent in the Circle, I became more sensitive. I think it is a Spirit of Faith. They have never been seen before, and perhaps I am wrong, but something tells me I’m not.”

“Never been seen by anyone who would admit it,” Daylen corrected. “I’ve met spirits of Compassion and Valor. No reason to think that Faith wouldn’t be out there as well.”

“It always felt like the same…entity. This one spirit was curious about me and was…guarding me, for want of a better word.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky that it was around,” Daylen mused.

“I think it gave me strength in my most terrible battles, Ostagar being one of them. The fight with Petra’s demon being another.”

“I don’t know why I was chosen,” Wynne admitted. “Perhaps it knew that there was something more that lay in store for me. I like to think that I was given a rare chance, and I’m going to make the best of the time so generously given to me.”

“Is there something we can do to cure you?” Daylen asked.

“Cure me? What, am I sick now?”

“Well, you’re…a little dead.”

“You know as well as I do that you cannot cure the dead. And I’m not the only one dying. You are too. I’m just more efficient about it.” Daylen snorted. “Ah, child, your concern is heartwarming, but death comes to everyone, and it is not something to fear.”

“I don’t fear death,” Daylen replied. “I just have far too many things to do before I go. Would rather be alive, really, but I’m a busy man. Would rather go without regrets.” The enchanter shrugged, and Daylen looked closer at her. “You have any?”

“I try not to dwell too much on the mistakes of my past, of which there are many. I would go quite mad if I did that. But I do have one regret – the greatest misstep of my life, made even more grave because it had dire consequences for someone else. Years ago, I was assigned as mentor to a lad, Aneirin. He was my first apprentice. He was an elf, raised in one of the elven Alienages, and he was very mistrustful of humans, especially humans in authority.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Daylen replied. “And the ‘was’ doesn’t make it sound like this ends well.”

“It doesn’t. What Aneirin needed was time. Time to get used to his new home, time to emerge from his shell so we could build a rapport. I gave him no such time. I was young, and arrogant. ‘He is a mage’, I thought. ‘He needs to grow up and act like one.’ I expected too much from him, too quickly. I gave no consideration to his origin, or his feelings. And he retreated further from me. All I could think of was how stubborn he was, how he was throwing away all his talent and potential, just to be difficult.”

“He must have been a big fan of yours,” Daylen snarked. “Was he talented?”

“Oh, very much so. Sometimes I would catch him practicing on his own, but if I asked him to show me what he could do, he would freeze up, or fumble terribly.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “Sounds like Jowan. He would fumble a spell goodness knows how many times. I eventually had to trick him into doing it without knowing the teacher was there just so he could prove he could do it. But go on.”

“Patience is what I needed, and I learned that too late to help him.”

“What happened to him?”

“Aneirin ran away from the Circle, one night. I had berated him over some trivial, ridiculous matter that I no longer remember. I drove him away because of something utterly unimportant. He was a child, fourteen at the time of his leaving. They had his phylactery, and they hunted him down…”

“He’s dead, then,” Daylen finished. “If they’ve got the phylactery, they don’t leave the mage alive. It doesn’t matter to them if the mage has used magic they’ve forbidden or not. There’s a risk, they kill the mage.”

“They called him a maleficar,” Wynne said bitterly. “He was a child, misunderstood and lost. I begged the Templars to tell me if he suffered, if they gave him a quick death. I got no answers from them. I was his mentor and they wouldn’t even tell me what became of him.”

“Cruel, even for Templars,” Daylen remarked, refraining from pointing out that no real mentor would have driven their student away. “I hope you learned from that, though.”

“I should have known better. I had the best mentors. They were kind, compassionate…why didn’t I learn from them?” Again, Daylen bit his tongue. “I failed Aneirin. All I had to do was listen to him. He would try to talk to me, and I would tell him to concentrate on his spells. He talked about the Alienage sometimes, and the Dalish. He always talked about looking for the Dalish elves.”

“It’s unlikely he’s alive, but if he somehow survived the Templars, maybe he did find a clan,” Daylen said. “We encountered one before we visited the Circle. We could certainly ask, we have to head back that way anyway.”

“Oh no,” Wynne replied. “The Templars are well-trained and thorough. That he still lives…it would be a vain hope.”

Daylen shrugged. “All we can do is ask. For now, I should go.” He spotted Morrigan pacing nervously by her tent and approached, spotting Wynne casting a handful of monitoring glyphs around the camp.

“Warden – Daylen,” Morrigan corrected herself. “I…must apologize for my behavior last night.”

“Honestly, I’m a little surprised at you, Morrigan,” Daylen remarked. “Not that you tied one on – I’d be lying if I said I’d never done that. If you’d made me that offer sober, I’d have had you in that tent so fast it’d make your head spin. But that’s a rule for me. No drunken affairs.”

There was a moment's pause. “Well, I am sober now.”

Daylen paused. “You are, at that.”

—ROTG—

The witch made a quiet noise of protest as he withdrew, and Daylen shivered momentarily as the cold reasserted itself. Grabbing his clothes, he quickly began dressing as Morrigan curled up.

Daylen stumbled out of the tent, his robes half-on and a smug grin on his face that even a charging ogre couldn't have removed. Tugging his robes on properly, he ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and looked back towards the opening in the tent. “You going to be all right in there?”

“Of course,” Morrigan drawled, tugging a blanket over her nude form. “Go do your manly strut.”

Daylen stretched, walking towards the main camp. Giving Sten a polite nod, he warmed his hands over the fire, trying not to grin too widely at Alistair. “Nice night, isn't it?”

Alistair slowly turned his head towards him, something between amusement and anger clear on his face. “You do realize that  _everyone_ in camp heard that, right? I mean, it went for _hours_.”

Daylen coughed guiltily, but his grin stayed right where it was. “Warden stamina and rejuvenation spells. I would say I was sorry…”

“And I would say I wasn't both disgusted and impressed, but then we'd both be liars,” Alistair said. “It's really none of my business what you and her get up to, so long as the rest of us can get some sleep.”

Daylen shrugged, nodding to Zevran, who gave him a cheerful smirk in return. Cupcake padded over, sniffing him and gently pawing at his leg. “Hey, pup,” Daylen said, scratching him behind the ears. “Something on your mind?” The dog snuffled, before whuffing quietly and trotting off. “Oh well.”

Wynne gave him the look of quiet disapproval that Daylen was utterly convinced was taught to all senior enchanters at the Circle. “That is  _not_ the way you were taught to use magic, young man!”

“No, but then I wasn't taught to use magic to kill darkspawn or save Ferelden either. I learned to improvise at the Circle.”

“You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?”

Daylen blinked at the sudden change. “Beg pardon?”

“Well, she's hardly discreet,” Wynne said disapprovingly. “The way she looks at you, it's as though she's completely forgotten there's anything of you above the waist.”

“Well, to be fair, there _is_ a lot more of me below the waist,” Daylen replied, finding it a suitable alternative to bloodying the woman's nose.

“Oh, sweet Maker! Is a little decorum too much to ask?”

“Well, it's true,” Daylen said with a shrug.

“Moving along now,” Wynne sighed. “I've noticed your blossoming relationship, and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going. She is a cunning woman, a _maleficar_. She will use you for her own ends.”

Daylen's eyes narrowed. “All right, first off – watch it. She's used precisely nothing in the way of magic forbidden by the Chantry, not that most of us give a toss about that anyway. Don't go jumping to conclusions just because a mage was raised outside the Circle. Secondly, you don't know her. It's not your right to judge. You took such offense to Aneirin being called a maleficar, and you turn around and label Morrigan one?”

“I am telling you what I see, and what my instincts tell me.”

“I don't particularly care _what_ your instincts-”

“And even if the feelings you share are genuine,” Wynne continued.

Daylen’s eye twitched. “ _If_?”

“This affair may not be the best thing for either of you,” the enchanter finished, raising her voice. “You are a Grey Warden. You have duties which supersede your personal desires.”

“And what do you know of my duties?” Daylen snapped. “I'm sorry, did you join the Wardens when I wasn't looking? For someone who has only heard the ridiculous legends of the Grey Wardens, you sure seem to know a lot about what my job is!”

“Love is inherently selfish,” Wynne argued. “It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one's mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish.”

“What you're describing isn't love, that's obsession. And besides, there have been Wardens who have married – Alistair told me as much.”

“There may come a time that you would be forced to choose between your duty to Ferelden and her. And what then would you do?”

“There may,” Daylen said. “And if that time comes, I'll deal with it. I haven't come across anything I couldn't handle yet. What am I supposed to do, tell Morrigan to go away?”

“You may have to, to save one or both of you unnecessary anguish later on.”

“So I should inflict pain now to avoid it later?” Daylen asked sarcastically. “Great logic. I heard about this man who was afraid of his house catching fire, so he burned the place down. Worked like a charm!”

“I have given my advice,” Wynne declared. “Do with it what you will.”

“Too bad you hadn't written it down,” Daylen snapped, turning on his heel. “I could have used it to wipe my arse!”

—ROTG—

Daylen wiped his sword clean, grimacing as the darkspawn’s blood soaked into the soil. “I didn’t realize the horde was this far north already,” he commented to Alistair.

“There may be an entrance to the Deep Roads around here,” Alistair replied. “No survivors from the caravan.”

Daylen sighed. “And that conscript company we found butchered by wolves. Didn’t we usually win these things?” Sheathing the blade, he glanced around the battlefield. “Have you seen my staff?”

Alistair pointed. “Over there, under one of the bigger ones. How’s the sword treating you?”

“Well, considering we pulled it off one of the dead conscripts, surprisingly well,” Daylen said, yanking his staff out from under the body. “We should cut past the Dalish encampment within a day or two, and from there it’s just a few days to Denerim. It should be quiet from here.”

—ROTG—

“Quiet from here, eh?” Alistair asked, wincing as Daylen healed the concussion he had picked up. “Why do I listen to you?”

“Because I’m cute,” Daylen said. “Now hold still, I don’t want to mess this up. You’ve got a fractured skull, I’d rather not do it wrong.”

“Was that all of them?” Leliana asked, her bow still strung.

“Seems to have been,” Wynne replied. “Sten, were those mercenaries Qunari?”

“No.”

The enchanter looked at him a moment longer. “So there are just giant horned men normally running around Ferelden?”

“They are Tal-Vashoth,” Sten ground out. “They have left the Qun.”

“Are all Qunari as quiet as you?” Wynne asked.

“Are all mages as chatty as you?” Sten replied. The Warden snorted, biting his lip as he continued his healing.

Wynne paused. “That’s fair.”

“He’s got a point,” Daylen admitted, finishing his work and patting Alistair on the shoulder as he stood up. “Morrigan and I do go out of our way to bug him.”

“Let us move on,” Sten groused.

—ROTG—

“All right, we’re here,” Daylen said as they entered the Market District of Denerim once again. “Whose business should we take care of first? Leliana, Alistair, or Genitivi?”

“I think we should attend to that bardmaster, first,” Alistair admitted. “She seems like a larger problem.”

“As eager as I am for Alistair to meet his sister, I must agree,” Leliana said. “Marjolaine is a greater threat than I can properly convey.”

“Very well,” Daylen agreed. “You have that address, still?”

It wasn’t far to the location. “Marjolaine may not even be here,” Leliana said as they approached the door. “It may just be a contact of hers. This may not even lead anywhere.”

“Leliana,” Daylen replied soothingly. “It’s all right.”

The bard nodded, taking a calming breath and checking her weapons, loosening her daggers in their sheathes. “I am ready.”

Daylen gave her a reassuring smile, readying his staff. “Alistair, take the lead, would you? Leliana, follow him in. Sten, Morrigan, Wynne, follow me. Zevran, find a side door or a window.” Cupcake snuffled, and Daylen nodded. “You just do you, pup.”

The door opened, and by the time Daylen entered the building the others were already engaged with a pair of armor-plated guards. Alistair deflected a blow from a maul, turning the strike aside with the flat of his blade and moving past the guard, shoving him off-balance with his shield. The guard tripped over his companion as Leliana darted past him, her dagger finding a gap in the man’s armor behind his knee and dropping him to the ground. Daylen froze them in place with a quick spell, and the fight was over a moment later as arterial blood stained the floor.

Leliana didn’t stop moving, yanking the door open to reveal a well-dressed woman waiting beyond, looking spectacularly unperturbed by the corpses. “Leliana!” The woman said warmly, an Orlesian accent tinging her voice. “So lovely to see you again, my dear…”

“Spare me the pleasantries, Marjolaine,” Leliana snapped. “I know you’re-”

“Oh, you must excuse the shabby accommodations,” Marjolaine went on. “I try to be a good host, but you see what I have to work with?” Daylen blinked in confusion, but Leliana remained ready, her blades drawn. “This country smells like wet dog. Everywhere. I cannot get the smell out. Even now it is in my hair, my clothes…ugh.”

Daylen shook himself. “Why did you send assassins after Leliana?”

“So business-like, your companion,” Marjolaine commented.

“You framed me,” Leliana spat, her voice cracking. “You had me captured, and _tortured_. I thought that in Ferelden, I would be free of you. But it seems I am not. What happened to make you hate me so? Why do you want me dead so badly?”

Marjolaine raised an eyebrow. “Dead? Nonsense. I know you, my Leliana. I know what you are capable of. Four, five men…you can dispatch easily. They were sent to give you cause to come to me. And see? Here you are.”

Daylen stared at her. “Normal people just send a letter, but I guess that’s considered uncouth by Orlesians.”

“Ignore what she says,” Leliana warned. “She is lying. I know how she works.” She glared at her former companion. “What are you up to, Marjolaine? Why are you in Ferelden?”

The woman shrugged. “In truth? You have knowledge that you can use against me. For my own safety, I cannot let you be. Did you think I did not know where you were? Did you think I would not watch my Leliana? ‘What is she up to?’ I thought. ‘The quiet life, the peasant clothes, hair ragged and messy like a boy…this is not her.’ You were planning something, I told myself. So I watched…but no letters were sent, no messages. You barely spoke to anyone. Clever, Leliana, very clever. You almost had me fooled. But then you left the Chantry, so suddenly. What conclusion should I draw? You tell me.”

Leliana sputtered. “You think I left because of _you_? You think I still have some plan for…for revenge? You are _insane_. _Paranoid!_ ”

“She’s helping _me_ , you nonce,” Daylen pointed out, crossing his arms. “She’s helping the Wardens fight the Blight. Not everything is about you, Marjolaine.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” the woman challenged. “If I were you, I would believe nothing she says. Not a one. She will use you. You look at her, and you see a simple girl – a friend, trusting and warm. It is an act.”

“I look at Leliana and see a deeply complex friend, someone who has been hurt and wronged by someone she trusted,” Daylen shot back.

Leliana set her shoulders, locking eyes with Marjolaine. “I am not you, Marjolaine. I left because I didn’t want to become you.”

“Oh, but you are me,” Marjolaine said airily. “You cannot escape it. No one will understand you the way I do, because we are one and the same.”

Daylen suddenly realized they weren’t alone – there were other people in the building with them, waiting in the side rooms of the house. “I trust Leliana, no matter what you say,” Daylen declared.

“Thank you,” Leliana said quietly.

“You are a fool,” Marjolaine snapped dismissively. “Do you know why you were a master manipulator, Leliana? It is because you enjoyed the game. You reveled in the power it gave you. You cannot change or deny this. You would have betrayed me, in time. That is why I turned on you first.”

“Wait, hold on now, let me get this straight,” Daylen interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose and talking to nobody in particular. “Marjolaine spies on Leliana during her years in the Chantry and then goes after her the moment she leaves because she figures the only thing Leliana could  _possibly_  be doing all that time is plotting for and then setting out to seek revenge on her, because it's what  _she_  – Marjolaine – would have done. The whole reason Marjolaine betrayed her in the first place was because she was convinced Leliana would betray _her_ first, because it's what  _she_  would have done, so she did it first. Now, Marjolaine just cannot comprehend that Leliana was honest with her in the past, sincere in her devotion to the Chantry, and earnest in stopping the Blight, because Marjolaine wouldn't be, in her shoes. Am I getting this right?”

“Sounds right, yes,” Zevran said.

Daylen sighed. “Suddenly I understand Loghain's grudge against the Orlesians. Bag this, let's just kill them.”

“You will not threaten me or my friends again, Marjolaine,” Leliana spat. “You’ve caused too much pain for far too many. It ends here.”

Marjolaine scoffed. “And you think you can kill me, like that? I _made_ you, Leliana. I can destroy you just as easily.”

“I’ve seen Leliana’s abilities, but it happens to be eight against one,” Daylen commented.

“I am not alone,” Marjolaine replied. “You think I would be so foolish as to only have those two guards?”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Zevran spoke up, leaning against a wardrobe behind Marjolaine. “But you _would_ be so foolish as to think that I wouldn’t have killed them several minutes ago.” The elf smiled coyly. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Leave her to me,” Leliana said, drawing her daggers. “But if I fall, she does not leave here alive.”

“Not a chance,” Daylen began, only for a blinding flash to go off and disorient most of the party as Marjolaine set off a trap.

“I shall not die like this!” Marjolaine cried, drawing her own daggers and lunging at Leliana. The redhead parried, ducking around her first two strikes and spinning her offhanded dagger around in her palm into a reverse grip, coming around behind Marjolaine to stab at her kidneys. The elder bard came around in a hard overhand strike that Leliana easily parried, only to strike low and leave a deep slash across the leg of Leliana’s leathers. Leliana snarled, kicking Marjolaine in the shin and striking with both blades, the elder bard taking a calm step back and letting Leliana’s strikes pass by harmlessly. The two locked blades, and Marjolaine sneered at her. “Remember who taught you, Leliana.”

In response, the rogue spat in Marjolaine’s eye, before slamming her forehead into the bard’s nose, blood spurting as Marjolaine’s nose broke. “I’ve picked up some new tricks!” The bard staggered back, and Leliana turned on her heel, ramming her boot into Marjolaine’s unguarded midsection and ducking back, waiting momentarily as Marjolaine swayed drunkenly, before pressing the attack.

By this time, the others had recovered, and Zevran moved to engage. “I said leave her to me!” Leliana shouted, the two bards still exchanging strikes and parries, blades clanging as metal met metal. Marjolaine twisted her wrist mid-strike and Leliana fumbled, one of her daggers clattering to the floor as the rogue backed away, suddenly on the defensive. Marjolaine snarled, pressing her advantage, and Leliana circled around, the briefest hint of a smile flitting across her face as Marjolaine turned and struck again.

“Daylen,” Alistair asked quietly, “are you sure about this?”

“Not even slightly,” the Warden replied. “But this is her choice.”

Leliana hissed in pain as she picked up a deep gash across her palm from trying to parry Marjolaine’s dagger with the thick leather on her gauntlets. She countered without flinching, and Marjolaine cried out as one of her daggers – and two of her fingers – fell to the floor, Leliana kicking the dropped weapon away as the two continued fighting. A few grappling twists later, the two bards had pinned the blades between them and Marjolaine was spitting blood in Leliana’s face.

In response, Leliana grinned. “Do you think I haven’t had blood in my eyes lately? You are _nothing_ compared to darkspawn!” Bringing her knee up into Marjolaine’s gut, she wrenched her weapon hand free of the other bard’s grip, bloody hands slipping as the two separated. Marjolaine fished a glass bulb out of her pocket with her injured hand and tried to set off another disorienting trap, only for Leliana to slap the bulb out of her hand, the item rolling away and under a table. Doing so dropped her guard, and Marjolaine’s dagger carved a neat slash into Leliana’s cheek a moment later. Marjolaine tossed her dagger up and caught it in a reverse grip, stabbing at Leliana and carving a deep gash along her other arm. Leliana stumbled, and another smile flashed across her face before her other dagger dropped low, leaving her upper body unguarded. Marjolaine took the bait, her dagger coming up in a forward grip to strike a killing blow, and Leliana’s hands blurred, the edge of her dagger carving along the inside of Marjolaine’s forearm, severing muscles and arteries. Leliana’s other hand caught Marjolaine’s dominant wrist, twisting it around as she threw herself against the older bard, slamming Marjolaine’s own dagger into her chest.

“I am _nothing_ like you,” Leliana spat.

“That may be so,” Marjolaine gurgled. “But it's only a matter of time, now, until you're just like me.” She rasped out a laugh, pink foam collecting around the wound and at her lips. “Just like me. Just... like... me."[2] Leliana twisted the blade, and the other bard dropped to the floor, dead.

There was a long, pregnant pause. “It’s over,” Leliana said finally. “She’s dead. She’s dead because of _me_.”

“Was all that really necessary?” Daylen asked, gathering some mana and hitting Leliana with a burst of healing magic. “We could have taken her down in seconds. One lightning bolt. Easy.”

“It was personal,” Leliana said, spitting out some blood that had made its way into her mouth. “I…I need some time to myself.”

“Take some time,” Daylen replied. “Take Cupcake with you, head back to the camp.”

The bard nodded, leaving without another word. “You think she’s all right?” Alistair asked a few moments later.

“Would you be?” Daylen asked rhetorically. “I’ll check in with her later. Meantime, let’s see if we can find anything useful around here.” The Warden turned, stepping through another doorway and ducking as a trap went off, a metal spike missing his nose by inches.

“Trap right there,” Zevran commented lightly.

Daylen glared at him. “No kidding?”

A quick search of the house revealed a fair amount of high-end equipment. “Marjolaine was well-equipped for a bard,” Zevran remarked, looking at a set of leathers that had been concealed behind a false back in a wardrobe. “Many senior Crows do not have access to such finely-made armor.”

“Take it along for Leliana,” Daylen ordered. “Any weapons?”

“Besides the ones Marjolaine was using, not much,” Alistair reported. “Just a bow. Rather nicely made, too.”

The group took what they could, collecting documents, coin, and anything else they could get their kleptomaniacal – well, pragmatic – hands on.

Then they left the house, moving on to the next awkward family reunion, and things began to get…complicated.

—ROTG—

_Desire Demon  
“In all my studies, I must say that the most intriguing was my interview with the desire demon. That the creature was willing to speak with me was a sign that this was no mere monster, mindlessly driven by its nature, but rather a rational being as interested in me as I was in it. It took a form that I would call female, though I had no doubt that it could appear otherwise. I wondered if it appeared as it did because I wanted it to or because I expected it to. She... and, indeed, I could only think of her as such now... smiled warmly at me and laughed a musical sound that seemed to thrill my old heart._

_So frightened was I of this creature's legendary abilities to twist the hearts of men, and so relieved was I when I looked across the table into her dark eyes. This was a fearsome creature of the Fade, but as I spoke with her I slowly came to realize that this demon was merely as misunderstood as we mages are, ourselves.”_

_\--From the journal of former Senior Enchanter Maleus, once of the Circle of Rivain, declared apostate in 9:20 Dragon._

_Of all the threats from beyond the Veil, few are more insidious and deceptively deadly than the desire demon. In folklore, such demons are characterized as peddlers of lust, luring their prey into a sexual encounter only to be slain at the culmination. While a desire demon can indeed deal in pleasure, in truth they deal with any manner of desire that humans can possess: wealth, power, and beauty, to name a few._

_Far more intelligent than the bestial hunger and rage demons, and more ambitious than the demons of sloth, these dark spirits are among the most skilled at tempting mages into possession. Many who serve the whims of a desire demon never realize it. They are manipulated by illusions and deceit if not outright mind control, although these demons are reluctant to resort to such crude measures. Instead, they seem to take great pleasure in corruption. The greater the deceit, the greater their victory._

_Only demons of pride prove more fearsome opponents when roused. Their abilities to affect the mind allow them to assume disguises and even alter the environment to their purposes, not to mention the great strength and speed they possess if they should have to resort to more physical means. Most often a desire demon will attempt to bargain its way to freedom if overpowered—many stories exist that depict mages defeating desire demons to the point where a wish can be wrested from them. It should be noted that in such stories the demon almost always gets the upper hand even when the mage thinks his wish has been granted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s amazing how the go-to solution for Arl Eamon’s poisoning was to find an artifact that most people believed was a myth. When your doctor’s prescription is “drink from the Holy Grail,” maybe it’s time to see what else you have on the shelf. I mean, even asking Jowan what the poison was might have helped. Just an option to ask him and have him say “I don’t know, they just gave it to me” would have been nice.
> 
> 1The Princess Bride. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Burn Notice. [ return to text ]
> 
> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	15. Awkward Reunions and Suicidal Fanatics: What is Wrong With You People?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more wild goose chase before the party gets back to work.

_The Sacred Ashes of Andraste  
Only one person witnessed Maferath's betrayal: Havard the Aegis. A childhood friend of Maferath, he accompanied his chief to the meeting with the Tevinters, not realizing what was planned. When he understood that Maferath was giving Andraste over to be executed, Havard, unwilling to draw swords against his friend and liege, placed himself between Andraste and the Tevinter soldiers. The Tevinters struck him down, and Maferath left him for dead._

_Gravely wounded, Havard made his way to the gates of Minrathous to stop the execution. When he reached it, the terrible deed was already done, the armies on the plains long since dispersed. Havard, cursing his weakness, gathered the earthly remains of Andraste that had been left to the wind and rain, and wept. When his fingers touched the pile of ash, his ears filled with song, and he saw before him a vision of Andraste, dressed in cloth made of starlight. She knelt at his side, saying, “The Maker shall never forget you so long as I remember.”_

_The song faded, and the vision with it. And Havard was alone. But his wounds were healed. With new strength, Havard took up the ashes of Our Lady, and bore them back to the lands of the Alamarri._

_\--From Thedas: Myths and Legends, by Brother Genitivi._

—ROTG—

The group stepped out into the noise and light of Denerim’s market, the Warden squinting against the light. “Alistair,” he said. “I know you’re anxious to go meet your sister, but I think we need to go find Brother Genitivi.”

“Agreed,” Alistair replied, scrubbing at a splatter of blood on his bracer. “You know where it is?”

Daylen nodded. “Oh, sure, I’ve never met the man before and have no idea what he looks like or how a brother of the Chantry lives but I know where his house is _of course I don’t know where he lives_.”

“All right, that’s a fair point,” Alistair admitted. “Do you have a plan for finding out, then?” He looked over, realizing the mage had walked away. “Daylen?”

The Warden had approached a Chantry sister, carefully avoiding the Chanter standing by the board and the two slightly daffy sisters preaching by the gate. It took only a few moments to wheedle directions out of her, especially once Daylen mentioned that they were there on behalf of the Arlessa of Redcliffe.

“Remind me to drop her name more often,” Daylen remarked as they crossed the market. “Another resource ripe for abuse.”

Alistair groaned. “Please, don’t get us into any more trouble than we’re already in.”

Daylen eyed the house that Genitivi supposedly lived in. “Well, unless there’s another Pride demon on the other side of this door, that’s unlikely.”

Alistair glared at him. “Why do you have to go saying things like that? You _know_ how your luck is!”

The Warden shrugged. “I figure it’s going to happen either way. At least this way we have someone to blame.”

Inside, they found a long table with neatly sorted piles of books, charts, and maps, with several other maps tacked up precisely on the walls. A man emerged from deeper in the house, and Daylen eyed the man, noting his skin tone – unusually dark for a Fereldan. “Yes?” The man asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry to intrude like this,” Daylen spoke. “I am looking for Brother Genitivi. Who are you?”

“My name is Weylon. I am the assistant of the scholar Brother Genitivi. This is his house.”

“And where is he?” Daylen asked. “It’s imperative that I find him.”

“That makes two of us who are looking for him,” Weylon said darkly. “I haven’t seen Brother Genitivi in weeks. He’s sent no word; it’s so unlike him. I am afraid something has happened. Genitivi’s research into the Urn may have led him into danger.”

“Do you think he found something dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” Weylon admitted. “He was very excited when he left, and said he would be back with all the answers. Perhaps the Urn has been lost for a reason. I pray for Genitivi’s safety, but hope dwindles with each passing day. I-I tried to send help, but some knights came from Redcliffe looking for him not long ago. I sent them after Genitivi and they too have disappeared.”

“We’ve met a few of them,” Daylen noted. “Where did you send them?”

“No, don’t ask me where they went,” Weylon protested. “You’ll go after them, and what if some misfortune should befall you, too?”

“Oh, no need to worry about that,” Daylen said brightly. “My luck is awful anyway.”

“This search is a curse, on all of us,” Weylon went on. “Some things are _not meant to be found_. I know that now.”

“Lives hang in the balance,” Daylen pressed. “I’m willing to take the risk. Tell me where he went.”

Weylon sighed. “So be it. All he said before he left was that he would be staying at an inn near Lake Calenhad, investigating something in that area. I tried looking through his notes to see _what_ he was looking for, but he must have taken that information with him.”

Daylen shrugged. “We’ll head for the inn immediately. If he’s there, we’ll find him.”

“Good luck,” Weylon said quietly. “May you find the answers you seek.”

The group left the house quietly, and Daylen looked to his companions. “Thoughts?”

“He's lying,” Zevran said flatly.

“Zevran is right,” Alistair agreed. “Something I learned in the Wardens. If a man's wearing his pants on his head or if he says his words backwards from time to time, you know it's all laid out there for you. But if he's friendly to strangers and keeps his home spick-and-span?” He shrugged. “More often than not, he's done something even his own mum couldn't forgive.”[1]

“That place did seem awfully well-organized for the research base of an eccentric Chantry scholar,” Daylen remarked.

“You think this is a trap?” Alistair offered.

Daylen worried his lip between his teeth. “I don’t think we have a choice but to investigate.”

“But what if Weylon just sent us on a false lead?” Zevran challenged.

“All right, let’s hedge our bets,” Daylen offered. “Zevran, Sten, and Wynne will remain here in Denerim, make sure Weylon doesn’t leave or contact anyone to warn them about us. The rest of us will go to Lake Calenhad.”

“Seems like an odd place to hide an artifact like the Urn, anyway,” Alistair commented. “In an area like Lake Calenhad? It would have been discovered by now.”

“Look, there’s another reason to go,” Daylen argued. “If there’s someone there that’s involved with Genitivi’s disappearance, we can question them. Hopefully the good brother is still alive.”

“I…” Alistair paused and blinked for a moment, considering the point. “You’re right. That’s rather devious of you.”

Daylen shrugged. “I have my moments. Now, we have another point of business to take care of.”

“Eh?”

Daylen gave him a pointed look. “Your sister, mate.”

Alistair blanched. “Oh. Right. Yes. Well. Erm…I think that’s my sister’s house on the other side of the market, near Wade’s shop, that smithy.” The group approached the door, and Alistair nodded. “I’m almost sure of it. Yes, this is the right address.” The warrior shifted nervously, and Daylen watched his friend knit his fingers together. “Will she even know who I am? Does she even know I exist?” Alistair started to ramble, and Daylen nudged him gently.

“Why don’t we go find out? I’ll be right behind you, Alistair.” The warrior opened the door and entered the building, and Daylen glanced at his companions, speaking quietly. “Zevran, Morrigan, wait out here. Best not to pack the house.”

The mage entered the house with Sten and Wynne behind him, and found a redhead speaking to Alistair. “Eh? You have linens to wash? I charge three bits on the bundle, you won’t find better. And don’t trust what that Natalia woman tells you either, she’s foreign and she’ll rob you blind.”

“I’m…not here to have any wash done,” Alistair said, his voice cracking. “My name’s Alistair. I’m…” He took a deep breath. “Well, this may sound sort of strange, but are you Goldanna? If so, I suppose I’m your brother.”

The woman stared at him in confusion. “My what? I am Goldanna, yes, but how do you know my name? What kind of tomfoolery are you up to?”

“He’s telling the truth,” Daylen commented. “Listen to him.” He nudged Alistair. “Give her some details.”

“Look, our mother…she worked as a servant in Redcliffe Castle, a long time ago, before she died. Do you know about that? She-”

“You!” Goldanna exploded. “I knew it! I _knew_ it!” Alistair flinched at the volume, and Daylen took a half-step back. “They told me you was dead! They told me the babe was dead along with Mother, but I knew they was lying!”

Alistair swallowed hard. “They told you I was dead? Who? Who told you that?”

“Them’s at the castle! I told them the babe was the king’s, and they said he was dead. Gave me a coin to shut my mouth and sent me on my way! I knew it!”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair breathed. “I didn’t know that. The babe didn’t die. I’m him. I’m your brother.”

The woman gave a derisive snort. “For all the good it does me! You killed Mother, you did, and I’ve had to scrape by all this time. That coin didn’t last long, and when I went back they ran me off!”

“And what, that’s his fault?” Daylen snapped. “He didn’t have anything to do with that!”

The woman glared at him. “And who in the Maker’s name are you? Some servant of his, to carry all his riches, I expect?”

Before Daylen could decide whether to set her on fire or hit her with a bolt of lightning, Alistair spoke up. “Hey! Don’t speak to him that way! He’s my friend, and a Grey Warden! Just like me!”

“Ooh, I see,” Goldanna spat. “A prince and a Grey Warden, too. Well, who am I to think poorly of someone so high and mighty compared to me? I don’t _know you_ , boy. Your royal father forced himself on my mother and took her away from me. And what do I got to show for it? Nothing!” Alistair faltered as she scowled at him, before continuing with her tirade. “They tricked me good. I should have told everyone. I got five mouths to feed, and unless you can help with that, I got less than no use for you!”

“I…I’m sorry,” Alistair said quietly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well _I_ do,” Daylen growled. “Alistair came here hoping to find his family. You lost your mother – he never _had_ one. We’re out there risking our lives to keep you safe! And you’ve got a lot of bloody nerve talking to him like that!”

“Well, so he’s found his family,” Goldanna shrugged. “I’m his sister. But what are you to me, boy, except the one who took my mother away, hm?”

“You think I wished her dead?” Alistair asked incredulously. “I never wanted that! I didn’t have the life you think I did, Goldanna.” The man’s expression held anger, sadness, and more than a hint of betrayal, like a hungry child who just watched his uncle eat the last cookie. “I…let’s go,” he finally said to Daylen. “I want to go. Goodbye…sister.” He was out the door in seconds, pushing past Sten and Wynne.

“Goldanna, in leaving, I’d just like to quote something I said to my dear old dad on a like occasion,” Daylen said calmly.

“Yes?”

“You give me a ruddy shooting pain-”[2] Wynne clapped her hand over his mouth and she and Sten bodily dragged the Warden from the building. “Bitch is lucky I didn’t set her on fire,” Daylen spat as he shook the two off of him. “Where does she get off, acting like that? He’s her brother!” He glared at the others. “Well? Anyone else got any awkward family reunions to warn me about? I mean, between a murderous former bardmaster and an absolute _witch_ of a sister, I think I’m about full on those! Where’s Alistair?”

“He wandered off that way, rather distressed about something inconsequential, I’m sure,” Morrigan drawled, pointing.

“Morrigan, you come from something of a different world than most of us, so I’m going to let that slide,” Daylen said quietly. “But I’ll thank you to lay off of him for the time being.” Shouldering his way past Sten, Daylen strode off after Alistair, finding his fellow Warden pacing in an alley. “Oi. You all right?”

“That was…not what I expected,” Alistair admitted. “To put it lightly. This is the family I’ve been wondering about all my life? I can’t believe it. I…I guess I was expecting her to accept me without question. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do? I…I feel like a complete idiot. The only one who cared about me was Duncan, and he’s gone.”

Daylen smiled faintly. “Maybe you are an idiot, a little bit. But not for the reasons you think.” At Alistair’s confused look, Daylen shrugged and went on. “Well, accepting you without question? I can think of a good half-dozen people who have stood alongside you with their feet in the fire and accepted you without blinking.” Daylen stepped closer, putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You don’t need her, Alistair. You have others that care for you. Leliana, Wynne, even Zevran. I certainly do. I said something to Bodahn, a while back. Blood isn’t that important. Family is. The two aren’t the same. You’ve got friends, Alistair. I’m one of them.”

The warrior shuffled, glancing up at him. “I…thank you. I’m glad you came with me.” He shook himself, standing up straighter. “Let’s just go. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

—ROTG—

That night, Daylen was sitting in front of the campfire, pulling off his boots and wincing as he worked out a sore spot in his calf. Cupcake padded up next to him, flopping down, rolling over, and shoving his head under Daylen’s arm and into his lap. Snorting in amusement, Daylen scratched the mabari behind the ear, the dog’s tongue lolling out in response.

“Got some time to talk?” Alistair asked, approaching with a crust of bread and a hunk of cheese in hand.

“For you? Absolutely,” Daylen replied, accepting some of the bread from the other Warden. “What’s on your mind?”

“What happened today, in the market,” Alistair admitted. “I…it didn’t go well, did it.”

“In terms of family not living up to what you’d hope they’d do, that easily ranks…well, to be honest, not all that highly compared to some things I’ve seen, but then Goldanna didn’t throw you to the Templars for something you had no control over,” Daylen admitted. “But I have to say, if she acted like that? You’re better off without her, mate. I can understand her being practical, sure, but she didn’t give a fart in the Fade that you were her relative.”

“I guess…maybe people are always out for themselves,” Alistair said. 

Daylen rolled his eyes. “None of that. Look, mate, sometimes, yes, people are bastards. Sometimes people are horrible. Sometimes they're just utter shite.” Daylen paused a moment. “I had a point here. Oh! Right. But sometimes, they're worth fighting for, and they're worth believing in. We're Wardens. What was it Duncan said? We stand in the shadows to safeguard the light against the dark. We have to believe that these people are worth saving. Otherwise, what's the point?”

“What’s _your_ point?”

Daylen sighed. “My point is that you shouldn’t let people push you around, but don’t just give up on people like that. You matter more than you think, Alistair. You’re the first person outside the Circle I’ve ever been able to trust.”

The warrior didn’t look convinced, but he shrugged anyway. “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Daylen.”

—ROTG—

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Alistair asked as the walls of Denerim faded into the distance behind them.

“If you’re objecting, say so,” Daylen prodded.

“I’m not objecting.” Alistair sighed. “It’s just…we’re pretty sure that this is a trap or at least a false lead. Why are we walking into it like this?”

“Because Weylon must have had a reason to send us here,” Daylen replied uncertainly. “I mean…don’t you think? He wouldn’t just send us on a wild goose chase, after all, he would know we’d come right back. Presumably, there’s going to be someone waiting there.”

Leliana spoke up. “He is right, but it is more than that. The best way to get information on who wants us to not find Brother Genitivi is to ask one of the people trying to stop us.”

“Huh. I must be smarter than I thought,” Daylen mused. “I didn’t even realize that.” Alistair snickered. “Oh, go on, then. Don’t laugh at me, you didn’t know either!”

Alistair kept chuckling. “Well, we’ve got a couple days to get back to Lake Calenhad. We’ll have to make camp on the road, most likely. I guess it’s going to be on me, Cupcake, and Leliana to scrounge up some food.”

Daylen sighed. “All right, all right, so I’m pants at hunting. At least I can cook.”

“Speaking of which,” Leliana chimed in. “What was that... soup you made for supper last night?”

Alistair perked up. “Ooh, that? That's a traditional Fereldan lamb and pea stew. Did you like it?”

The bard looked queasy. “Oh, so... it was lamb then? It had a certain... texture I don't normally associate with lamb.”

“They didn't make lamb and pea stew for you in Lothering?”

Leliana shook her head. “We ate simply there. Whole grains, made into biscuits or bread, and vegetables from the garden, cooked lightly. No heavy stews.”

Alistair nodded in understanding. “Ah, so the last lamb you had was probably cooked Orlesian style. Food shouldn't be frilly and pretentious like that. Now here in Ferelden, we do things right. We take our ingredients, throw them into the largest pot we can find, and cook them for as long as possible until everything is a uniform grey color. As soon as it looks completely bland and unappetizing, that's when I know it's done.”

The rogue raised an eyebrow. “You're having me on.”

Alistair laughed. “You need to eat in more Fereldan inns.”

That night, the group circled tighter around the campfire, their reduced numbers requiring less space. Daylen and Alistair sparred briefly, but with the encroaching Ferelden winter neither felt much like exercising in the cold.

“You’re improving,” Alistair acknowledged as the two sheathed their weapons. “You might not be able to keep up with a professional warrior yet, but against darkspawn you ought to be able to handle yourself.”

“Good to hear,” Daylen said, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face and casting a quick rejuvenation spell as Leliana strode out of the woods with a trio of rabbits. “My turn to cook?”

“It’s you or Alistair,” Leliana replied.

“Me. Please.” Leliana cleaned the rabbits quickly and deftly as Daylen rooted around in their supplies. “Roast rabbit with some cheese and bread all right with everyone?”

“Sounds good to me,” Leliana agreed.

“As long as it’s hot,” Alistair added. Morrigan nodded silently, her brow deeply furrowed.

Daylen’s eyes widened. “Ha! A bonus!” He pulled a tiny pot of honey out of the pack. “This’ll go well with the rabbit.” He spitted the meat and set it over the fire, before looking over at Leliana. “This ought to go quickly.”

“Is there something you wanted to talk about?” Leliana asked, crouching next to Daylen.

“No, but you looked like you wanted to talk,” Daylen replied, turning the spit to help the rabbits cook evenly. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“Marjolaine,” Leliana said quietly, staring into the fire. “I can’t get what happened out of my head. I’d been in Lothering for years and she still thought I was plotting against her. She didn’t trust me. Maybe she never did. She loved me when she could use me and control me, and once she couldn’t, she wanted me dead. It…it hurts to realize I never really knew her.”

“Sometimes people surprise you,” Daylen replied, thinking of Jowan. “You’d be surprised what people can hide. Is there anything I can do?”

“You are already doing so much just by listening,” Leliana said. “I knew she was ruthless, but I didn’t know how far she’d go. She was self-serving, cruel…she used people, then discarded them, but that’s how she survived in the life she led.” She looked Daylen in the eyes, her eyes glistening with tears. “What if she’s right? What if we’re the same? I…I should have just stayed in the Chantry.”

“She would have attacked you there eventually,” Daylen pointed out.

“Maybe, but that’s not the point. I was a different person there. I forgot my life as a bard while I was in the cloister. I felt safe. I didn’t have to watch my back all the time. That’s what made Marjolaine the person she is, don’t you see? It ruined her; it will ruin me too. It’s already happened.” At Daylen’s questioning look, she went on. “When I killed her, I…I _enjoyed_ it. Seeing her dead gave me satisfaction.”

“Er…Leliana, after everything she put you through, I’d be more worried if you _didn’t_ take some level of satisfaction from ending her. She did you a great injustice. She had that coming.”

“But that is no reason to rejoice over her death. That is what she would do. I don’t want that!” The bard stood up, pacing around the fire. “What we’re doing, what we’ve done? Part of me loves it. It invigorates me and this scares me. I…I feel myself slipping.”

Daylen snorted. “Leliana, we’re in a dirty business, but you are a good person. You always will be.”

“How can you be so sure?” Leliana challenged.

“Evil doesn’t worry about not being good,” Daylen shot back. “Nobody sees themselves as the villain in their own story.” Leliana’s face clouded in thought. “The fact that you worry about this? It’ll keep you honest.”

“That…that is true,” Leliana allowed. “I can always trust you to show me things from a different perspective.” She dusted her hands off. “I would like to be alone, for now. I have many things to consider. Thank you, for listening to me.”

“If you need something to occupy your hands, Zevran usually sets traps around the camp,” Daylen said.

“I’ll do that,” Leliana replied, striding off as Morrigan approached. The witch’s face was stormy.

“I have been studying Mother’s grimoire,” Morrigan said without preamble. “Do you wish to hear what I have found?”

“Nothing good, from the look on your face,” Daylen replied. “What did you find?”

“Plenty. ‘Tis not what I expected. I had hoped for a collection of her spells, a map of the power that she commands. But this is not it.”

Daylen watched the other mage’s face, concerned at the unusual display of emotion. “Yet you look disturbed.”

“Disturbed? Yes, perhaps that is the right word,” Morrigan mused. “One thing in particular within her writings disturbs me. In great detail, Flemeth explains the means by which she has survived for centuries.”

“Blood magic?” Daylen guessed. “Human sacrifice?”

“That is closer to the truth than you might think,” Morrigan said darkly. “Flemeth has raised many daughters over her long lifetime. There are stories of these many Witches of the Wild throughout Chasind legend, yet I have never seen a one and always wondered why not.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Daylen muttered.

“And now I know,” Morrigan sighed. “They are _all Flemeth_. When her body becomes old and wizened, she raises a daughter. And when the time is right, she takes her daughter’s body for her own.”

Daylen’s jaw dropped. “I…are you certain about this?”

“Indeed. That is primarily what this tome details. The various daughters that Flemeth has…acquired. Their preparation and training. I recognize all of it. I am to be her next host. That is my purpose.”

“So is Flemeth immortal or not?” Daylen asked. “If she needs to possess someone…”

“In a way, she is. Whatever spark of the demon that made her what she is remains within her and keeps her from dying of old age. But her body deteriorates, just like anyone else’s. Eventually she would be so wizened as to be senseless and immobile.” Morrigan’s face twisted in distaste. “So she must seek a new body, a _fresh_ body, and start the cycle anew.”

Daylen glanced over at the rabbits and hurriedly turned the spit to prevent burning them. “Then why would she risk sending you with me? A darkspawn or a bandit could kill you and leave her in a spot.” Another thought occurred to him. “Maybe she’s accounted for that. Can it be anyone? Or must it be a daughter?”

Morrigan fidgeted. “I am uncertain. According to her writings, certain hosts are better than others. The more a host is prepared, the quicker…the transition…will be. I do not know why she would send me on your quest.” The witch began to pace, worrying a ring Daylen vaguely recognized as having looted personally between her hands. “Perhaps ‘tis as she said: the darkspawn threaten her as much as they threaten anyone else. Or perhaps she believes this journey will make me more powerful. If the…host,” She said, looking as if she had just bitten into a sour apple, “is already powerful, and trained in magic, it takes far less time for Flemeth to…settle in. Or perhaps she simply wished me gone from the Korcari Wilds so she could prepare her ritual in peace.” Morrigan grimaced. “I am sorry. This simply takes me by surprise. I would have thought that I would have had some inkling, some notion.”

“No one would think the worst of their own parent,” Daylen said quietly, a bitter taste flooding his mouth.

“There is only one possible response to this,” Morrigan continued grimly, looking him directly in the eyes. “ _Flemeth needs to die_. I will not sit about like an empty sack waiting to be filled. Flemeth must be slain and I need your help to do it.”

“I’ll help you, if I can,” Daylen said immediately.

Morrigan blinked in surprise. “I…very well. Then what needs to be done is for you to go back to Flemeth’s hut in the Korcari Wilds. Without me. If I am present when she is slain, I cannot be certain that she will not be able to possess my body right then. So I must remain at the camp.”

“And then what?” Daylen asked. “Can we even kill her?”

“She may not die of old age, but a dagger to the heart would end her as surely as you or me,” Morrigan replied. “Confront her, slay her quickly. I doubt that she will truly be dead even then, but it will take her years to find a new host and recover her power…if that is even possible. The thing I _must_ have is her true grimoire. With it I can defend myself against her power in the future.”

“I’ll see what can be done,” Daylen declared. “We will be heading back that direction anyway.” Morrigan looked uncertain, and Daylen smiled faintly at her. “Look, I promised that I would make sure you came to no harm. That includes keeping you safe from her, if necessary.”

“I…I must admit that I did not expect you to agree so readily.”

Daylen gave her a wry grin. “What’s the big deal? All we’re doing is trying to kill an abomination of legend.”

“Bravado aside, I am grateful,” Morrigan said quietly. “The sooner this can be done, the sooner it will set my mind at ease.”

“Well, I have a few ideas on how to put your mind at ease,” Daylen replied lasciviously.

The witch smiled in spite of herself. “Come now, you’ll make Alistair blush. Maybe after you finish cooking.”

—ROTG—

Two hours later, Daylen stretched out across the bedroll, sparks of healing magic flaring across his neck and back and closing the bite and nail marks. “I see the stories they tell of Grey Warden endurance are not exaggerated,” Morrigan said gleefully.

“There are stories?” Daylen asked.

Morrigan chuckled, pressing a thumb to the edge of her mouth. “Indeed there are. Legends about regarding such figures as Garahel, sordid though they may be. The unanswered question, of course, is whether the endurance exists because of the Taint within you, or because the Grey Wardens are by nature so very…healthy.” Daylen grinned, and Morrigan went on. “I enjoy the thought that ‘tis a little of both. Natural prowess driven by a darker side.”

Daylen pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at his lover. “So…what now? With us, I mean.”

“That is entirely up to you,” Morrigan drawled, tying her hair back after it had come loose. “Simply know that I have no designs on your independence. I wish only to do what I desire, and if that coincides with what you desire…then so be it. And should you decide not to continue our…misadventure, then so be it. Very simple, is it not?”

“And do emotions enter the picture? What about love?”

“Ah, now you ruin the mood by speaking profanities,” Morrigan sighed.

“All right, fine,” Daylen said with a shrug. “We’ll change the subject. Do you truly wish Flemeth dead?”

Morrigan sighed again. “Such enchanting subjects you choose for pillow talk.”

“That’s the Grey Wardens for you,” Daylen replied. “Fun, fun, fun.”

“The truth is that no, under normal circumstances, of course I would not turn against my mother so. For all that she is not the picture of maternal love, I mean her no ill will. But Flemeth herself taught me long ago: once you know your enemy, strike quickly, without mercy, and ensure that your enemy is dead. Were our positions reversed, she would no doubt do exactly the same.”

“Just wanted to ask,” Daylen replied. “Let’s get moving.”

A wicked smirk spread across Morrigan’s face. “You are insatiable.”

Daylen shrugged. “I was talking about getting back to work, but all right.”

—ROTG—

“Welcome back to the Spoiled Princess,” the innkeeper said. “Less of you this time. Suppose you won’t need as many rooms.”

Daylen nodded. “We’ll be staying the night. Just need some information, actually. Has there been a Chantry brother staying here? Brother Genitivi?”

The man twitched. “Er…no. No, of course not. Never heard of Brother Genitivi.”

“What about knights from Redcliffe?” Alistair asked. “Have you seen any?”

“No, no, I haven’t seen any knights,” the man replied quickly.

Daylen’s eyes narrowed. “You seem nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous? Listen, the person you’re looking for isn’t here. You should be on your way as soon as possible.”

“You in some kind of trouble?” Daylen asked quietly. “You can trust us.”

“No, of course not,” the man insisted, sweat beading at his forehead.

“Look, we wind up helping people, so-”

“They’re watching me,” the innkeeper said quietly, leaning forward. “I can’t speak openly.” Daylen glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and the man flinched. “Don’t! Don’t look around. And keep your voice down.” The man grimaced, before continuing in a low voice, leaning forward as if he were chatting with Daylen. “They’re looking for anyone asking for this Brother Genitivi. They told me to act like nothing’s wrong, and just deny ever having seen the brother, or the knights.”

“Who are these people watching you?”

“I don’t know,” the man admitted. “You should be on your guard, and leave quickly. I don’t know what happened to the knights, but I doubt it was anything good.”

Daylen nodded. “Thank you. We’ll be careful. We’ll have to stay the night, but we’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

The man winced again, before nodding. “All right. May the Maker turn his gaze on you.”

—ROTG—

The door creaked open, three shadows flitting inside, barely visible in the dark. Blades were drawn, darkened with soot, pitch, and unidentifiable poisons. The three assassins moved over the figures in the room, poised to strike.

On a silent signal, the blades came down, piercing the thin blankets. And finding no purchase in anything but feathers beneath.

“Boy, you really murdered those pillows,” Daylen commented, leaning against the wardrobe. The assassins turned to attack, only for the Warden to knock them off their feet with a blast of mental energy, following up with a wave of biting frost as Alistair dove from inside the wardrobe and Cupcake burst from under the bed. The warrior parried two strikes from one of the assassins easily and opened the artery in the man’s leg, the would-be murderer mewling pitifully and bleeding out quickly on the floor. Another met a messy end as Cupcake’s teeth perforated his throat.

“Leave this one alive,” Daylen ordered, pointing at the frozen assassin. “I want to ask him a few questions. Search him and tie him up.” Opening the door, Daylen spotted light flaring from under the opposite doorway and kicked the door open, lightning crackling around his hands.

Two more assassins lay on the floor, one with a slit throat and the other resembling a chicken left on the spit for too long. “I hope you kept one alive,” Leliana remarked calmly, wiping her dagger clean.

“We’ve got one left, yes,” Daylen said, letting the magic dissipate. “You two all right?”

Morrigan nodded. “These men were terribly obvious, and no match for us to begin with.”

“Good. Well, let’s go meet our new friend.” The trio trooped back into the other room, finding the man sitting in the room’s only chair, his hands bound in front of him. “Let’s make this simple,” Daylen said softly, crossing his arms and trying to look vaguely intimidating. “Who sent you, and why?” The man merely glared at him. “Look, I’m not normally too nosy. But when someone tries to kill me, I tend to wonder why.”

“No written orders,” Alistair informed him. “No weapons besides the dagger he used. I haven’t seen leathers like these before, but then I haven’t been everywhere.”

Daylen gave their captive another once-over, noting the man shared the same unusual skin tone as Weylon. “Save us all some time and tell us why you wanted us dead.” A stony glare was all Daylen received. Shrugging, the Warden turned away, Alistair following him as the two men pulled Leliana and Morrigan aside.

“Real talker, this one,” Alistair said sarcastically.

“I’m not much for torture,” Daylen admitted. “But even if I was, I’ve never done it before. Morrigan, you have any spells that would shake some answers loose?”

“The usefulness of such spells would depend on whether you wanted him to survive the experience,” Morrigan remarked. “Any spells that would loosen such a man’s tongue would easily kill him in doing so.”

Daylen grimaced. “Leliana, have you ever questioned anyone who didn’t want to be questioned?”

“No,” the bard said quietly. “But I have been on the receiving end. I know what works.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do this, but-” There was a crash, and Daylen whirled around to see the man had smashed the clay water pitcher on the table. He had a shard of the hardened clay clutched in his hand, a wicked edge on the fragment. “You think that’s going to do you much good?” Daylen asked rhetorically.

“For Andraste!” The man cried, slashing his own throat open.

Daylen blinked as the blood spurted, freezing up. “Wait, what?”

Alistair gave him an exasperated look. “Daylen, he’s dying!” The mage shook himself out of his shocked reverie and knelt next to the assassin, magic flaring around his hands as he tried to close the ragged wound – only for the assassin to ram both fists into Daylen’s throat, sending the Warden rolling back and coughing for air. The man fell still as Daylen grasped at his throat, blood pooling on the floor.

Wincing as his windpipe ached, Daylen rolled the man over, checking for a pulse. “He’s dead. What kind of fanatics are we dealing with that they would commit suicide rather than be questioned?”

Alistair shrugged. “No idea, but what do you say we get the corpses out of here before they start to stink?”

—ROTG—

Daylen stepped out of the Spoiled Princess with one of the bodies slung over his shoulder and flinched as an axe-head thumped into the heavy wood of the doorframe. “What the-” An arrow lodged itself in the corpse he was carrying, and Daylen ducked as a half-dozen armed and armored men charged, armor gleaming in the pale light of the setting moon. “Alistair, need your help!” Daylen tossed the corpse at one of the closest fanatics and clapped his hands, sending out a burst of mental energy that staggered the attackers and bought a precious few seconds. Daylen silently cursed his assumption that the assassins would have only tried to attack them in their rooms. It was a perfect ambush. There were no witnesses at this time of night – the only other living being around was the Templar ferryman Carroll dozing by the ferry to the Circle tower.

Alistair ducked out of the inn, his sword and shield up and ready. His armor was back in the room, but as Daylen unleashed a torrent of frost on the attackers, Alistair moved into action, finding chinks and gaps in armor and cutting through cheap leathers. Leliana ducked another arrow and charged the pair of archers that were standing farther away as the Templar ferryman finally woke up and decided to intervene.

By the time the Templar and Leliana had killed the two archers, Daylen and Alistair had killed all but one of the fanatics, backing the last one – a rogue bearing a pair of wickedly curved daggers – into the corner. “Easy, now,” Daylen said. “You can make it out of this alive.”

The man spun his daggers around, his eyes alight with a fanatical gleam. “For Andraste!” Blood spurted, and the man fell in a heap, his throat slashed open.

“What is _wrong_ with these people?” Daylen asked.

“Who _are_ you people?” The Templar asked incredulously. Daylen turned, and the Templar took a step back as he recognized the Warden. “Oh, Maker, it’s _you_. Never mind. Have a nice night.”

—ROTG—

Daylen hammered on the door, rubbing his eyes. “Come on, open up,” he called. “Zevran, it’s Daylen. We’re back.”

The door opened, and a bleary-eyed Wynne looked out. “Zevran is currently watching the Brother’s house. Sten is with him.”

“Sorry, Wynne,” Daylen said. “We were ambushed at Lake Calenhad. I wanted to make sure you three were all right.”

“My goodness,” Wynne gasped. “We’re all fine here. Are you all right?”

“No injuries,” Daylen replied. “Are you up to coming along? We’re going to confront Weylon.”

“I need just a few moments.”

—ROTG—

“Ah, you’re back,” Zevran said. “What did you find?”

“We received a rather…pointy reception at Lake Calenhad,” Daylen replied. “We’re going to go ask Weylon a few questions. I’ll decide how violently we ask when we get there.”

“Easy, Daylen,” Alistair cautioned. “He may be our only lead at this point.”

"Can't make an omelet without breaking a few legs," Daylen replied.

"Its eggs," Alistair replied. "Can't make an omelet without breaking a few _eggs_."

Daylen smiled sweetly at him. "You do it your way, I'll do it mine." Rearing back, he kicked the door in, the group entering the house with weapons drawn.

Weylon ran out of the back room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You’re back?”

“Surprised?” Daylen asked acidly. “Expected me to be dead?”

“I am glad you are alive, of course,” Weylon said guardedly. “What did you find?”

“So, Weylon,” Daylen said brightly. “I must admit, sending me into a trap like that was very rude. Not the trying to murder me part, I get that all the time. The part where I wasted all that time going to Lake Calenhad, murdering your colleagues there, and then coming back here to get the right information before I go find Genitivi."

“My fellows have failed,” Weylon growled. “I can see their deaths in your eyes. I knew them well…my brothers died in the service of Andraste. May she draw their souls to Her, and cast _yours_ into oblivion!” Lightning crackled around his hands, and Daylen drew on his own mana as the man glared at him. “For Andraste!”

“Oh _no you don’t_ ,” Daylen snarled, casting a quick spell and draining the man’s mana. Weylon’s spell fizzled out, and Wynne cast a spell of her own, freezing him in place. “Thank you, Wynne. Too many of these ponces have killed themselves instead of telling us what is going on.”

“It will not last long,” Wynne replied. “We must work quickly.”

It was at that moment that Weylon exploded. Fire blasted out from the man, knocking the party off their feet as the flames consumed him, blood spurting from his mouth.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Alistair asked, sitting up.

“Blood magic,” Daylen coughed, noticing his sleeve was on fire and quickly slapping the fire out. “He must have chewed through his tongue and used the sacrifice to cast some sort of suicide spell. Who _are_ these guys?”

“I do not know,” Leliana said, examining what was left of the corpse. “I have never seen such fanaticism.”

“Search the place,” Daylen ordered. “There may be information on where Genitivi got off to.” The group spread out, and Daylen perked up suddenly. “But be careful! There may be traps.”

It didn’t take long until they found something out of the ordinary. “Daylen,” Zevran called from the back room of the house. “You had better take a look at this.”

Daylen recoiled as he entered the back room. “Maker’s _breath_ , what is that?”

“A body,” Zevran said, indicating a sheet-covered corpse. “The real Weylon, no doubt. He has been dead for at least two weeks.”

Daylen had a kerchief pressed over his mouth and nose. “And the imposter was keeping him here for what, company?”

“I am not sure,” Zevran replied. “But clearly these men are ruthless, as well as stupid.”

“Search the room,” Daylen interrupted. “Then let’s get someplace less…fragrant.”

—ROTG—

“All right, everyone,” Daylen said as the group gathered around the research table in Genitivi’s house. “What do we know about these people?”

“They’re fanatics, to start with,” Alistair supplied.

Leliana nodded. “Agreed. Any group with members dedicated enough to commit suicide rather than be interrogated is a force to be reckoned with. They also are relatively well-supplied – those men who attacked us at the inn had well-maintained armor and weapons, and did not want for numbers, either.”

“Their mages are not numerous, but they _are_ capable of using blood magic,” Morrigan added, glancing at the scorch mark the imposter Weylon had left on the floor. “They are also rather powerful.”

“They aren’t very smart, though,” Zevran spoke up. The others looked over at him. “Their assassins were attempting to be inconspicuous in a well-populated area, had an innkeeper under duress, and what’s more, they bothered with this entire deception in the first place. It would have been much simpler to replace the innkeeper as well with one of their own, someone who could simply misdirect people searching for Genitivi rather than send them into an ambush that would only draw attention. For that matter, they could have simply stripped this house clean of all references to the Urn of Sacred Ashes and left anyone looking for the brother with no information.”

Daylen sat down, scratching at his beard. “Anything else?”

“Yes, actually,” Leliana said, setting a leather-bound journal down on the table. “I found a book detailing some of Genitivi’s research. Amidst numerous ramblings about local legends and ancient trade routes, one passage stands out.” The bard opened the book, flipping to an entry late in the journal and reading aloud. “The village of Haven in the Frostbacks seems a good place to start. Pity it's not on any maps." She closed the book around one of her fingers, saving her place. “That entry is from just a few weeks ago. It may be where Genitivi went.”

“Well, that’s something,” Daylen said. “So we have a name. The name of a village that isn’t on a map.”

“Not much help,” Alistair said. “The Frostbacks are immense. We could spend years searching for a single village.”

“He’s thought of that,” Leliana interjected, opening the book again. “Brother Genitivi also spent a great deal of time looking for information about the possible location of Haven. He has narrowed it down to a few possible locations.” She closed the book again. “Even if this village is ancient and isolated, it _must_ have some sort of a trail or road leading to it.”

“I see,” Daylen mused. “Do we have the supplies or the equipment to go into the Frostbacks with winter approaching?”

“Supplies, yes, equipment…” Alistair shook his head. “We need thicker clothing. Thicker socks, perhaps new or thicker boots. Gloves, sleeping furs, maybe even new tents.” He winced, doing some mental arithmetic. “This is going to be _expensive_.”

“We do have a hole card,” Daylen replied. “The lyrium potions we have are _very_ potent. They’re worth an arm and a leg to the right buyers. We do have other options, though – I’d rather not part with too many of them. Zevran, you mentioned earlier that there have been some jobs available?”

“Yes, of various kinds,” Zevran said. “Some are…less legal than others. I have done what I can, but there are a handful of things that would require travel outside Denerim. I have the notices here.”

Daylen thought for a moment longer, before nodding decisively. “All right. We’ll get our equipment and supplies and finances in order, and then leave immediately. No sense in staying longer than we need to, the weather will only get worse. We’ll skirt around the south road, pass the Brecelian Forest – we’ll check in with the Dalish, and resupply as well as see if they need anything we can provide – and stop in at Redcliffe, where we can check on the Arl's state and resupply for the journey up into the mountains. Alistair, Sten, Wynne, you’ll be tasked with getting our supplies. Wynne, I need you to use that grandmotherly disapproval and haggle for every copper you can on the supplies. Anything you think we can use, get it, but remember we’ll most likely be carrying it. I’m not going to gamble on Bodahn wanting to follow us up into the mountains. Zevran, Morrigan, we’ll be looking into those jobs and getting our supplies in order.”

“And me?” Leliana asked.

Daylen glanced at the back room. “I need you to speak to the leader of the city guard. There’s a bloke out in the market – Zevran, what was his name?”

“Sergeant Kylon,” the assassin supplied. “I have done a few jobs for him, mostly talking some thugs into leaving the tavern or brothel they were currently no longer welcome in. A good man, if somewhat too…honest, for my tastes.”

“Right. Leliana, I need you to tell him about what’s happened here. Have them retrieve Weylon’s body and deliver it to the Chantry for the proper services. Just…don’t mention the blood magic, that’s trouble we don’t need.”

—ROTG—

“So where are we going?” Alistair asked as the party regrouped at Genitivi’s house.

“If I’m reading Genitivi’s notes properly, and that’s a big if,” Daylen replied, tilting the journal so Alistair could see the untidy scrawl inside the book, “There are three possible locations for Haven. Leliana, Wynne, and I sorted through his notes. Genitivi figured that the village may have been destroyed or renamed over the centuries. He had four possible locations, but one we confirmed was destroyed during the Orlesian occupation and as best we can tell, it was never known as Haven anyway. It’s entirely possible that the village is so isolated that they didn’t even notice the Orlesian occupation. Or, maybe they were wiped out four hundred years ago. History’s a bit of a woolly subject when you don’t have enough reliable sources.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to check out all of them, then,” Alistair pronounced.

“That was my thinking, too,” Daylen agreed. “There’s some old trails marked out – I’m hoping we can work our way north. And there’s another problem.”

“Always is,” Alistair sighed.

“Well, _someone_ doesn’t want us to find Genitivi. And there’s no way of knowing whether they altered this map. Or if Genitivi was even on the right track when he made these notes. The Urn could be in Nevarra, for all we know. It could be in Weisshaupt, or in the Deep Roads, or it could have been destroyed centuries ago during a Blight or some war or a natural disaster. But this is the lead we have, so this is the lead we’ll work with.” He frowned at the map. “I’d like to wait until the spring thaw before we head into the mountains, but we just don’t have the time. Arl Eamon doesn’t have the time.”

“We’ll make it, Daylen,” Alistair said quietly.

Daylen stared at the map a moment longer, before nodding firmly and folding it up. “Right. Let’s go.”

—ROTG—

“ _Andaran atish’an_ , Grey Warden,” Lanaya said warmly as the group entered the camp. “Welcome back.” She eyed the new members of the party. “You have some new companions, I see.”

“Many stand against the Blight, some more directly than others,” Daylen replied. “I can assure you, they will behave themselves.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, Wynne will. Zevran may flirt outrageously with everyone in camp, but I trust the Dalish have some amusingly gruesome way of dealing with unwanted advances.”

“We typically stake the offender out for the bears, yes,” Lanaya said sweetly. “Would you like a demonstration?”

“I shall pass on that, thank you,” Zevran replied. “But I like her sense of style.”

“Anyway,” Daylen went on, “we’re here to check in, see if your clan has any needs, and to let you know of a safe place for those that won’t be joining us on the battlefield to gather.”

“That has been on my mind,” Lanaya admitted. “We could push deeper into the forest if need be, but if there is a safe place for our elders and young to shelter…”

“Redcliffe is our staging point,” Daylen said. “The clan could wait there – it is a very well-defended village.”

Lanaya regarded him warily. “We do not typically stray close to human villages.”

“The Dalish will not be harmed. Anyone who misbehaves will have to answer to me.”

“You ask much, Warden,” Lanaya replied. “I will consider it, but the forest may provide better protection than the kindness of humans.”

Daylen sighed and nodded. “Very well. I won’t ask you to risk your clan if you feel it isn’t worth it. Is there anything you need?”

“Our craftsmen are working day and night to outfit our hunters, and we are set for equipment and food,” Lanaya replied. “However, we are still stretched thin on numbers. There have been groups of bandits sighted in the forest nearby. They have not approached our camp, but they have waylaid a few caravans bound for the human village of Gwaren.”

“We may be able to do something about it,” Daylen said. “Anything else?”

Lanaya’s face darkened. “Yes. There is another matter. The Dalish do not share the human prejudices against blood magic, but there is a cabal of such mages in the forest. They pose a danger to our people.”

Daylen nodded grimly. “That, we can handle. If you have their location, we’ll see they aren’t a problem to you much longer.”

“That is all we need, Warden,” Lanaya said gratefully. “Is there anything your party needs?”

“Well, we have some items for trade,” Daylen admitted. “We would be grateful to camp near your clan for the night, perhaps swap some stories.”

The Keeper nodded. “You are welcome among us.”

“Excellent. Wynne, Zevran, Sten, get word to Bodahn.” He thought for a moment. “There is one other thing. This seems terribly unlikely, but would you happen to have known an elven mage by the name of Aneirin? He would have been fleeing from a human Circle.”

Lanaya thought for a moment. “The name does sound familiar, but you should speak to Sarel, our hahren.”

“Hahren?” Daylen asked. “That’s…an elder, right?”

“Of a sort,” Lanaya agreed. “They are storytellers, caretakers of our young, and work closely with a Keeper. Sarel would know if such an elf came into contact with our clan. An elven mage would have been prized by a Dalish clan. We treasure our mages. We would not turn away any elf, but we regard magic as a gift from the Creators.”

“I only wish humans shared your views,” Daylen sighed. “Thank you, Keeper.”

It only took a few minutes to find Sarel. “Welcome back, Warden,” the storyteller said as Wynne, Zevran, and Sten rejoined them. “Join us at the fire if you like, but haven’t you got a war to get to?”

“Have you ever heard of an elf named Aneirin?” Daylen asked.

Wynne glanced over. “I…I appreciate you trying to find him, but what are the chances?”

“Aneirin the healer?” Sarel asked.

“You…know Aneirin?” another Dalish asked.

Daylen’s jaw dropped in surprise. Wynne chimed in. “He _lives_? No, it can’t be him. Perhaps it is a common elven name?”

“No, I know of only one Aneirin,” the elf replied. “You know him?”

“He…was my student,” Wynne said faintly. Daylen was still staring.

“Ah, it makes sense!” Sarel replied. “Aneirin said that he was from the human cities. You are old friends then?”

Wynne hesitated. “If it is the same Aneirin, then yes, we know each other.” She looked over at the Warden. “Daylen, you’re going to catch flies.”

Daylen shook himself, closing his mouth. “Sorry. Where could we find him? Is he in the camp?”

“If you seek Aneirin, you must venture into the forest,” the second Dalish said. “He prefers to be amidst the trees and the animals.”

“Thank you all so much,” Wynne whispered, her eyes glistening.

—ROTG—

Daylen looked at the blood soaking his robes and grimaced. “Zevran, after we get back to camp, I’m going to need to learn to fight.”

“I thought Alistair was teaching you that,” the elf pointed out.

“Fighting with a blade, yes,” Daylen acknowledged. “But I’ve lost or broken every weapon I’ve ever owned, so I think I need to learn to fight with my hands.” He pulled the stolen axe out of the dead bandit’s forehead, ignoring the wet slurping sound as the man’s skull came apart.

Zevran paused and looked around. “So this is the Brecelian Forest? It's actually not that bad.” He looked around as those who had been there before stared at him in disbelief. “Oh, I'm not saying I'd like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely.”[3]

“Maybe it just made a bad impression on me,” Daylen said with a shrug, looking over as Leliana approached. “Anything useful?”

“Not particularly,” Leliana replied. “A paltry amount of coin, poorly made weapons.”

“Well, not every group of dead bandits can be rich,” Daylen sighed. “How do we find Aneirin? The Dalish said he lived out in the forest, but if he’s on his own, who knows how long it’ll take to find him.”

“Perhaps you could wait for him to find you,” a male voice called. Daylen glanced up and saw a redheaded elf in leathers sitting halfway up a tree, a staff strapped to his back. “Friends, turn back, please. These woods are a danger to those who do not know the paths.”

“Aneirin?” Wynne asked, her face caught between delight and disbelief.

The elf cocked his head. “Wait, I remember your face…but younger, more impulsive, stern…Wynne?”

“I thought they had killed you,” Wynne whispered.

“They very nearly did,” Aneirin admitted, dropping from the tree. “The Templars found me while I was searching for the Dalish. They ran me through and left me for dead.”

“Impressive that you survived,” Daylen commented. “Takes a hard sort of person to walk away from that.”

“I brought this on you,” Wynne said. “I was a dreadful mentor, harsh and impatient…I am sorry for the way I treated you.”

Aneirin snorted. “I have put that behind me and you should too. I didn’t fit in with the Templars and your Chantry. My path lay elsewhere.”

“Irving is a reasonable man,” Wynne went on. “He will find some way for you to return. The Circle needs new blood. It needs to change.”

Daylen looked at Wynne incredulously at her suggestion. “I have fond memories of Irving,” Aneirin said. “He was always kind to me. I will consider your proposal, and perhaps I will speak with Irving. However, I promise nothing.” He gestured at Daylen. “Perhaps the mage you seek is right in front of you. The Grey Warden is a mage, no? The Blight will not last forever. Why not look to him to shape the new Circle? It is something both of you should think about.”

“He has a point,” Wynne acknowledged. “You could shape the future of the Circle.”

Daylen burst out laughing. After a few long moments, he realized they were serious. “Oh, please. I’d sooner get Orlesian with a genlock. Besides, the Blight may not last forever, but the darkspawn will. There are plenty of mages, but few Grey Wardens around.” Pausing for a moment, he sought a way to change the subject before either one could try to wave off his objection. “We could stay longer, if you wish it, Wynne.”

“No, we’ve spent enough time on my personal affairs,” Wynne said. “It is time for us to move on.”

“Before you go,” Aneirin broke in, patting at the neck of his leathers, “look at this. It is the hardened sap of a tree native to this forest. It’s been something of a lucky charm for me, and now I want you to have it.” Unhooking the leather cord from around his neck, he held out the pendant, the light catching a thick teardrop-shaped lump.

“Very well,” Wynne said, taking the pendant. “I am grateful. May your gods smile on you, Aneirin.”

“And on you,” the elf said.

—ROTG—

“I have to admit, that group of blood mages was less trouble than I expected,” Alistair admitted that evening as the group gathered around a campfire. “The Templar trainers always spoke of how much of a threat they would be, but you took the lot of them out with a single spell!”

“Well, it was a single spell designed to kill mages that Templars and Circle mages don’t know exists,” Daylen replied. “And you could bet that if the Templars knew it existed, they would have some group of leashed mages taught it so they could hunt down apostates.”

The warrior looked uneasy. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Daylen looked over at his friend. “You do remember how we just today met a runaway apprentice who was accused of using forbidden magic with no proof, run through with a blasted longsword, and left for dead? You really think that that is out of the realm of possibility?”

“No, I just try to think positive,” Alistair shot back.

Daylen opened his mouth to snap off a reply, before hesitating. “I…you’re right. I’m not helping anything by grousing about it. Sorry, Alistair.”

The other Warden waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. You have the right to be upset about all this.”

“I know that, but it’s even starting to get on my nerves,” Daylen replied. “It’s one thing to annoy everyone else, but I’m irritating myself!” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s the lack of sleep.”

“Still having the nightmares?” Alistair asked.

Daylen nodded somberly. “I expected to be able to deal with them by now. Mages are taught to control our dreams – it’s how we avoid possession. Demons come to us in our sleep and try to tempt us. Generally they’re just annoying, but you get experienced at controlling what you dream about. But with this, it’s like I’m a young apprentice all over again.” He stood up and stretched. “I’m going to go try to get some sleep. We’ll leave early tomorrow.”

—ROTG—

Days passed as the party pushed into the mountains, the winter frost taking hold as the seasons turned. The freak blizzard Alistair and Daylen had nearly frozen in proved to be eerily prophetic of the cold the winter would bring. Time and again the group was forced to take shelter early, building ramshackle lean-to shelters to keep the falling snow off their tents and cookfires. More than once the mages had to freeze makeshift barricades of snow and salvaged rock and wood into place to protect the camp from the icy wind, the tents huddled together against the biting cold.

“Never thought I would miss the Circle,” Daylen remarked one evening as Morrigan melted a gap in the snow to place a cookfire. “At least it was warm.” He glanced over as Morrigan drew her cloak closer around herself, the witch giving him a surly look.

“I should hope you know what you are doing,” she commented as Alistair and Zevran unloaded their firewood. “We are wasting a great deal of time in this venture.”

“Morrigan, you know as well as I do that without Arl Eamon, we have no chance of getting the army of Ferelden behind us,” Daylen sighed. “Even with the mages, the elves, and the dwarves, we would not have the numbers to face the darkspawn.”

“There is another problem, at that,” Alistair added, not looking up as he arranged the firewood. “If two men accused of murdering the king suddenly show up at the head of an army of elves, mages, and dwarves, they would be seen as trying to take over the country. We would have two armies to fight.”

Daylen blinked as he contemplated what Alistair had said, before groaning. “I hadn’t even considered that. Just another reason we have to find that blasted Urn.”

“Well, if the maps are right,” Alistair replied, “we should be at the first village tomorrow. It goes by Honnleath, but the way it’s described, it may very well be the Haven described.”

“That golem that merchant described is in Honnleath, as well. It would be a valuable addition to the party.”

“If it exists,” Leliana pointed out. “We have no guarantee that control rod is not simply a very pretty ornament.”

“Even if it is, we’ve lost nothing,” Daylen replied. “Not like we paid for it.” He squinted at the sky.

—ROTG—

“I think I see the village,” Leliana called the next day.

Alistair came to a sudden halt, followed moments later by Daylen. “Not good,” the warrior said.

“Darkspawn,” Daylen added at Wynne’s questioning look. “Time to earn our pay.”

“We get paid?” Alistair asked.

“Get moving!” Leliana urged as a pair of screaming civilians ran past, shattering the midmorning quiet. A pair of genlocks chasing them met a quick end at Leliana’s arrows and a bolt from Daylen’s staff.

—ROTG—

_The Frostback Mountains  
Even mountains had a heart, once. When the world was young, Korth the Mountain-Father kept his throne at the peak of Belenas, the mountain that lies at the center of the world, from which he could see all the corners of earth and sky. And he saw strong men become weak, brave men grow cowardly, and wise men turn foolish for love._

_Korth devised a plan that he might never be betrayed by his own heart, by taking it out and hiding it where no soul would ever dare search for it. He sealed it inside a golden cask, buried it in the earth, and raised around it the fiercest mountains the world had ever seen, the Frostbacks, to guard it._

_But without his heart, the Mountain-Father grew cruel. His chest was filled with bitter mountain winds that shrieked and howled like lost souls. Food lost its flavor, music had no sweetness, and he lost all joy in deeds of valor. He sent avalanches and earthquakes to torment the tribes of men. Gods and men rose against him, calling him a tyrant, but with no heart, Korth could not be slain. Soon there were no heroes left, either among men or gods, who would dare challenge Korth._

_The Lady of the Skies sent the best of her children—the swiftest, the cleverest, and strongest fliers—to scour the mountains for the missing heart, and for a year and a day they searched. But sparrow and raven, vulture and eagle, swift and albatross returned to her with nothing._

_Then the ptarmigan spoke up, and offered to find the god-chief's heart. The other birds laughed, for the ptarmigan is a tiny bird, too humble to soar, which spends half its time hopping along the ground. The Lady would not give the little creature her blessing, for the mountains were too fierce even for eagles, but the ptarmigan set out anyway._

_The little bird traveled deep into the Frostbacks. When she could not fly, she crawled. She hugged the ground and weathered the worst mountain winds, and so made her lonely way to the valley where the heart beat. With all the god's terrible deeds, the heart was far too heavy for the tiny bird to carry, so she rolled it, little by little, out of the valley and down a cliff, and when the golden cask struck the earth, it shattered. The heart was full almost to bursting, and the pain of it roused the mountain god to come see what had happened._

_When Korth neared his heart, it leapt back into his chest and he was whole again. Then Hakkon Wintersbreath bound Korth's chest with three bands of iron and three bands of ice, so it could never again escape. And all the remaining gods named the ptarmigan honored above even the loftiest eagles._

_—”The Ptarmigan: An Avvar Tale,” from Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Fallout: New Vegas. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Hogan's Heroes. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3The Princess Bride. [ return to text ]


	16. Honnleath and the Search for Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Honnleath add another member to the party and the group searches for a lost village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for how long it took to update this fic. Fact of the matter is I'm working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_The Imperial Chantry  
There are those who would tell you that the Chantry is the same everywhere as it is here, that the Divine in Val Royeaux reigns supreme in the eyes of the Maker and that this fact is unquestioned throughout Thedas._

_Do not believe it._

_The Maker's second commandment, “Magic must serve man, not rule over him,” never held the same meaning within the ancient Tevinter Imperium as it did elsewhere. The Chantry there interpreted the rule as meaning that mages should never control the minds of other men, and that otherwise their magic should benefit the rulers of men as much as possible. When the clerics of Tevinter altered the Chant of Light to reflect this interpretation of the commandment, the Divine in Val Royeaux ordered the clerics to revert to the original Chant. They refused, claiming corruption within Val Royeaux, an argument that grew until, in 4:87 [sic] Towers, the Chantry in Tevinter elected its own “legitimate and uncorrupted” Divine Valhail—who was not only male, but also happened to be one of the most prominent members of the Tevinter Circle of the Magi. This “Black Divine” was reviled outside Tevinter, his existence an offense to the Chantry in Val Royeaux._

_After four Exalted Marches to dislodge these “rebels,” all that the Chantry in Val Royeaux accomplished was to cement the separation. While most aspects of the Imperial Chantry's teachings are the same, prohibitions against magic have been weakened, and male priests have become more prevalent. The Circle of the Magi today rules Tevinter directly, ever since the Archon Nomaran was elected in 7:34 Storm directly from the ranks of the enchanters, to great applause from the public. He dispensed with the old rules forbidding mages from taking part in politics, and within a century, the true rulers within the various imperial houses—the mages—took their places openly within the government. The Imperial Divine is now always drawn from the ranks of the first enchanters and operates as Divine and Grand Enchanter both._

_This is utter heresy to any member of the Chantry outside of Tevinter, a return to the days of the magisters, which brought the Blights down upon us. But it exists, and even though we have left the Tevinter Imperium to the mercies of the dread Qunari, still they have endured. Further confrontation between the Black Divine and our so-called “White Divine” is inevitable._

_—From Edicts of the Black Divine, by Father David of Qarinus, 8:11 Blessed_

—ROTG—

The group hustled into the village proper, a group of darkspawn engaging them almost immediately. Daylen ducked as a genlock archer narrowly missed, Leliana returning fire and putting an arrow through the darkspawn’s undefended head. The Warden himself dropped a genlock emissary with a Mana Clash as Alistair, Sten, and Zevran charged into the fray, a quartet of hurlocks meeting sticky ends as the three went to work. Alistair’s shield picked up a deep notch across its surface as he blocked a blow from a darkspawn axe, only for the darkspawn to be cleaved messily in half by Sten’s blade as Zevran hamstrung another hurlock.

Morrigan and Wynne were taking turns freezing, igniting, or electrocuting a small group of genlocks to the north, the two mages snapping off bursts of magic with almost contemptuous ease.

“There’s an alpha around here somewhere,” Alistair growled, offhandedly clotheslining a genlock with his shield and finishing the downed darkspawn with a single downward stab. Parrying two strikes from a hurlock, Alistair twisted his wrist and flicked the blade out of the darkspawn’s grip, bashing it in the chest with his shield and sinking the edge of his sword into the hurlock’s neck, tainted blood spraying across the dirt. As the hurlock gurgled and collapsed, Alistair looked around, spotting several dead darkspawn but none on their feet.

“More of them nearby,” Daylen said. “Can’t tell the direction, though.”

“That way,” Alistair said, pointing towards the center of the village. “Darkspawn don’t really understand the concept of locked doors. If they’re intact and not smashed in, the darkspawn didn’t get in there.”

Daylen nodded. “Let’s move!”

Several buildings in the village center were on fire. Clearly, the darkspawn had arrived only recently, and not in large numbers, as few human corpses were lying around. Daylen and the other mages quenched the flames licking at the wooden buildings with bursts of frost, which rather irritated the would-be arsonists – a motley mix of hurlocks, genlocks, and a single Alpha.

“Leliana, kill that archer up on the wall by that house,” Daylen ordered, lobbing a fireball at a cluster of genlocks. The darkspawn screeched as they were immolated, and the Warden followed up with a bolt of lightning that critically injured a hurlock. “Morrigan, Wynne, make sure that nothing comes up behind us.” Sten and Zevran had left a pack of dead darkspawn in their wake and were busily hacking a particularly burly hurlock to pieces as Alistair finished off Daylen’s wounded hurlock.

“Daylen!” Morrigan shouted. “ _Ogre!_ ”

“Wynne, glyphs! Slow it down! Morrigan-” Daylen broke off as Morrigan tossed him her staff, breaking into a jog as the ogre charged towards them, mana sparking around her hands. The witch’s form blurred and melted as she slipped easily into her spider form. Meanwhile, Wynne dropped several paralyzing glyphs on the ogre, and Daylen slipped Morrigan’s staff over his back, charging up a hefty bolus of mana and waiting. Morrigan pounced on the ogre, the impact knocking the overlarge darkspawn flat on its back. She began webbing up the creature’s limbs, and Daylen grinned as she left the ogre trussed up, the darkspawn roaring in impotent anger as she scuttled away. Slipping back into her human form, Morrigan rejoined the other two mages as they flung blobs of grease at the bound ogre.

“That will not hold it forever,” she warned as Daylen returned her staff.

“It won’t need to,” Daylen replied, nodding to Alistair as the party regrouped.

“Another bonfire?” Alistair asked idly, patting down his pockets and finding a wax-paper bag of mixed nuts he had brought from Redcliffe. Daylen nodded as the warrior munched a handful. “Mind if I do the honors?”

“By all means,” Daylen said. Zevran grinned and held out an incendiary flask, and Alistair handed over the bag of nuts to Daylen. Winding up, Alistair lobbed the flask overhand, the glass shattering on the ogre and igniting the grease it had been liberally soaked in. The creature bellowed in pain as its flesh burned, and the webbing snapped under the heat, the ogre trying to clamber to its feet before collapsing.

Daylen eyed the smoke plume. “Hopefully the wind holds and it blows away from the village. There’s more of the bastards around.” Popping a handful of the nuts in his mouth, Daylen folded up the bag and handed it back.

“Want to activate the golem first? It can watch our rear,” Wynne suggested as Alistair tucked the bag away.

“Probably for the best,” Daylen agreed, approaching the statue in the center of the town. The mage stepped over a low fence and nudged aside a half-empty basket of birdseed. “This must be it.”

“It does look like a golem, doesn’t it?” Leliana mused. “I wonder how it ended up here, of all places?”

Daylen inspected the golem more closely, idly fishing around in his satchel for the control rod. “These crystals were added afterwards. Maybe dwarven make, I’ve never seen anything like them in the Circle.”

“Activate it, then,” Alistair urged.

Daylen shrugged, tugging the control rod out and holding it up. “Dulef gar.” After a long pause, Daylen repeated the phrase more insistently, with identical results. Pressing the rod against the golem, the Warden tried again. Daylen growled angrily. “I’m going to find that merchant and shove this rod _so far up his_ -”

“There may be survivors about,” Wynne suggested. “One of them may know what the issue is.”

“Check the doors,” Alistair added. “Like I said, darkspawn don’t really understand locks. If there’s a door that’s unlocked…”

“Right,” Daylen said. “Everyone spread out. Find a door that’s unlocked.”

It only took a few minutes before Leliana whistled sharply, slinging her bow and drawing her daggers as the others regrouped. “Alistair, Zevran, take the lead. Sten, Leliana, bring up the rear. Wynne, Morrigan, with me.”

It didn’t take long to find the entrance to the cellar – the darkspawn had ripped it clean off the hinges. “So who wants to drop down the creepy darkspawn-infested hole first?” Daylen asked.

“Should be a Grey Warden, I think,” Alistair said. “Do me a favor, shed a little light on the subject?” Daylen obliged, a ball of magelight flaring at the end of his staff. “Not much of a drop,” Alistair pronounced, dropping down with his weapons ready. “Seems clear. I’m going to scout on a little.”

“No, stay close,” Daylen hissed. “The darkspawn know we’re here.”

Alistair grinned up at him as Zevran dropped down. “You doubt me?”

“No,” Daylen replied, “I don’t want you to kill them all by yourself.” Leliana dropped down, gesturing to Wynne. Daylen helped the elderly mage climb down, Leliana watching carefully at the bottom of the ladder. “Morrigan, you have anything we can use to scout ahead?”

“Yes,” the witch replied, sliding gracefully down the ladder. “Do you remember what I have taught you?”

“Time to find out,” Daylen muttered, dropping down and sliding past Alistair. “We’ll be back, but if you hear fighting, come running.” The Warden exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. Focusing and forming the magic, he felt his body shifting form. Daylen opened his eyes, his vision drastically different. It was only when Daylen tried to speak and a high-pitched squeak came out that the Warden realized the shapeshifting had worked.

“That is…an interesting piece of magic,” Wynne pronounced, watching the two mice scurry down the hall. “How did he come by it?”

“Morrigan taught it to him,” Leliana murmured, easing her bow off of her shoulder and scanning the hallway. “I do not know how much control he wields over it, but she has proven…very adept at changing her form.”

“Careful, Leliana, that was dangerously close to approving,” Zevran warned. “How are those new leathers fitting?”

“Perfectly,” Leliana said absently. “They should, after all. They were mine. Marjolaine must have taken them as a trophy.” She reached back and ran a hand over the bow slung over her shoulder. “The bow, however, was hers. She used it many times over the years.”

“Are you all right?” Wynne asked.

“No, not really,” Leliana admitted. “But who of us is?”

“Erm…what about me?” Alistair offered. “And the dog?”

“You are a Grey Warden,” Leliana countered. “It takes a special kind of crazy to volunteer for that. And the dog doesn’t count. He imprinted on another Warden.” Cupcake’s head snapped around, and he growled. “Was it something I said?” In response, the dog charged down the hallway, and the party followed closely, finding Morrigan and Daylen standing back to back, engaged with a pack of darkspawn.

“Down!” Daylen yelled, reaching back and grabbing Morrigan by the arm. Dragging her down with him, the two hit the floor as a fireball from a darkspawn emissary sailed past. Leliana drew first, an arrow slamming through the emissary’s temple before it could cast again. The rest of the group charged into the fray, blades biting into darkspawn flesh as they took some of the pressure off Daylen and Morrigan. Within a minute, the last darkspawn dropped dead as Alistair withdrew his sword from its chest, and Daylen scrubbed blood from a rapidly-closing scrape on his forehead.

“What was that about not killing them all myself?” Alistair asked, wiping tainted blood from his sword.  “You say that, and then try to hog them all?”

“There’s more, you know there are,” Daylen shot back with a grin. “Keep close, everyone.” It was only a few moments later that they ran into another clutch of darkspawn deeper into the cellar system. The Warden spied a glittering barrier separating the darkspawn from a group of panicked survivors. Then a charging hurlock smashed the edge of its shield into Daylen’s temple and the world went black.

Alistair saw his friend drop like a sack of dirty laundry with a beard on it, two genlocks approaching the unconscious man with axes as Morrigan’s bolt of lightning turned the hurlock that had knocked him out into a lump of charcoal. The warrior bellowed a challenge and barreled forward behind his shield, body-checking one of the genlocks halfway across the room and turning smoothly on his heel, blocking two strikes from the other genlock’s axe before kicking it in the chest and lopping its head off.

A single hurlock archer across the room managed to nick his cheek with an arrow, and Alistair crouched in front of Daylen, bringing his shield in front of both of them. “Leliana! Kill that archer! Morrigan, take the emissary! Sten, keep them off us! Wynne, come here!” Cupcake was circling around the two Wardens as the others went to work, and Alistair reached back, finding a bloody smear running down the side of Daylen’s face.

“He’s just unconscious,” Wynne declared, healing the injury with a burst of azure light. Daylen’s eyes snapped open, and he groaned in pain. “Stay down, Warden.”

“What happened?”

“A hurlock punched you,” Alistair replied.

“So what?” Daylen asked, rolling onto his back. “That happens.”

“With a kite shield,” Alistair added.

Daylen blinked a few times in confusion. “I…I need a pint. And to reconsider my choice of career.”

“Saw some brewing vats back that way,” Alistair muttered, watching as Sten chopped the last darkspawn into easily movable pieces, kicking the head away. “On your feet. I think that was the last of them.”

“Daylen, are you all right?” Leliana asked, offering him and Wynne a hand.

The Warden nodded as she helped him to his feet. “Thanks to Wynne, yes.”

“What would you do without me?” Wynne asked.

Daylen shrugged. “A better question is ‘what would all the others do if you weren’t around to put me back together again?’ And the answer to that is ‘bleed all over themselves, mostly.’” He clapped his hands together, stepping over the still-smoking body of the hurlock that had attempted to tenderize his skull and approaching the survivors. “Now then, on to business. Hello there! We’re here to help.”

“By the Maker, we’re saved!” one of the women beyond the barrier exclaimed.

“No, by the Wardens, but all right,” Daylen grumbled. “There don’t seem to be any more darkspawn around, but I would suggest being careful. More may come.”

“You…you weren’t sent here by the bann, then?” A blond man with a ponytail asked. “To save us?”

The Warden shook his head. “No, and it’s a ruddy long story why we are here, mostly because of how many of us there are, but isn’t there some proverb about not looking a gift horse in the arse or something?”

“In the mouth, Daylen, in the mouth,” Alistair said tiredly.

“Oh. Right.”

The blond had been watching them in a state of growing confusion. “Well, I’m not typically one to question help when it _saves our village_ , you know, but I have to ask – if you weren’t sent by someone, why are you here?”

“Like I said, ruddy long story,” Daylen answered. “But I’ll sum up with a few quick questions. One, are you familiar with this village’s history?”

“Actually, quite thoroughly,” the man replied. “My father had conducted an extensive research into the village’s origins.”

Daylen’s eyes lit up. “Excellent. Has this town ever been called Haven?”

“Afraid not,” he said. “It’s almost always been known as Honnleath.”

“ _Bugger_. Well, that’s one of the two reasons we were here. Looking for a lost village named Haven. That’s a whole other issue.”

“And the other reason?”

“I’m looking for whoever owned that statue…er golem…or whatever it is, outside,” Daylen said, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder.

“Oh…I think I see,” the man replied, his lip curling. You bought the control rod, didn’t you. You came here looking for _Shale_.” Reaching out a hand, he dragged it down the barrier, the magic dissipating quickly.

“Remarkable magic,” Wynne commented. “Superior even to my own barrier spells. And almost no feedback when it dissipates. Impressive.”

“My name is Matthias,” the blond explained. “My father Wilhelm was a mage for King Maric, he fought with him during the rebellion. So did that damnable golem.”

“You seem…less than fond of it,” Daylen replied.

“As well I should be,” Matthias said acidly. “One day my mother found it standing over my father outside the tower, with so many broken bones she could barely recognize him! My mother sold the rod years ago, and good riddance.”

“I’m…sorry to hear that,” Daylen replied, looking queasy at the mental image.

“My father deserved better than that,” Matthias sighed. “But if you really want to wake Shale up…well, it’s yours now.”

“Not quite it isn’t, the rod doesn’t work,” Daylen muttered. “But I have some questions. What is this place?”

“This was my father’s laboratory, beneath his tower…or it was, anyhow. You said the rod doesn’t work?”

“Admittedly it’s my first time using one of these but I didn’t see any sort of movement or signs of life,” Daylen said.

“Tricky, mother…” Matthias mumbled distractedly, glancing down the hall behind him that led deeper into the cellars. “She must have given the wrong phrase to the merchant. Probably hoped Shale would never be activated again.”

“Do you happen to know the correct phrase?” Daylen asked hopefully.

“I do, but there are more pressing matters,” Matthias pointed out. “Look, I know you probably have more important things on your mind, but I really need your help. I know you already saved my life, and I’m grateful, but my daughter Amalia is inside the laboratory.” He gestured at the hallway in question. “She was afraid and ran too far in before I could stop her. I don’t know how she made it past my father’s defenses. One of the men tried to go after her, and he was killed. But…you could find her, couldn’t you?”

Daylen groaned. “Matthias, I…we…oh, bugger it, all right, we’ll see if we can find your daughter.”

“You will? Thank the Maker!”

“But if we find her!” Daylen went on, holding up a hand. “You give me the correct activation phrase for that golem.” He thought for a moment. “And put us up for the night. I’m tired of having my people sleep on the ground.” He extended the hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“We can do that,” Matthias replied, shaking Daylen’s hand. “This may seem a little harsh, but after the attack…there are quite a few empty houses. My father’s laboratory is just through this hallway, I think. She has to be there!”

After a brief regrouping, the party pushed down the hallway, stepping over a badly burned corpse at the first room. Daylen blew a layer of dust off a bookshelf, noting a few titles on the Circle’s banned list and several more rare books he expected Irving would be willing to at least contemplate murder for. Lamenting the lack of time, he gestured to the others and the group moved on, but not before pocketing a leather-bound journal.

“Where are these defenses Matthias talked about?” Daylen whispered. Several shades ripped from the shadows, darting towards the group. “I…he…” the Warden trailed off with a sigh. “Oh, fine.” A moment later, the shades screeched, dissipating into the thick layer of dust on the ground as a Mana Clash took effect.

“All right, what kind of court mage uses shades like that?” Alistair asked.

“One who served during a rebellion,” Leliana said quietly. “Rules tend to be…relaxed, during such times.”

Daylen was leafing through the journal he had picked up. “I think this _is_ Wilhelm’s journal, at least one of the volumes. A handful of pages fell out from the book’s age, and Daylen found the most recent pages. “Oh, not good.”

“What?”

Daylen cleared his throat, reading aloud. “Wilhelm writes, ‘the interrogation of the demon is going well, and is rather fascinating – provided what it is saying is true.’”

“ _Not_ good,” Alistair agreed. “He captured a demon and tried to interrogate it?”

“It gets worse,” Daylen replied. “I read on. ‘I have sent all my research so far to First Enchanter Arden, and while he is concerned about my safety, he does not think there is a reason to stop just yet. All I hope is that the Templars do not discover what I am doing. How will we ever find another way to deal with demonic possession if the Chantry does not let us research it?’” Daylen looked up. “At least he had some semblance of a good reason.”

“And the demon possessed him, I should guess?” Wynne asked.

“Arrogant to think that he could safely contain it,” Morrigan commented.

“I don’t think he was possessed,” Daylen replied. “An abomination against a golem would almost certainly come out in favor of the golem, but from what Matthias said, Shale hasn’t been moved. No fight like that would leave a golem so undamaged. Besides, there are more entries.” He skimmed the rest of the journal. “The last entry says he was going to dismiss the demon, as it was becoming too dangerous, and he thinks it or his experiments may have had some influence on Shale. He was going to deactivate Shale and then deal with the demon.” Daylen closed the journal. “I don’t think he ever got the chance.”

“So a live and _very angry_ demon could still be down there, with Matthias’s daughter?” Alistair asked.

Daylen grimaced. “Oh, yes. Let’s say we get down there and finish this man’s work?”

Luckily, no further shades were encountered on the way down, and the party found themselves in a surprisingly large room with a domed ceiling. The Warden could feel the ambient magic in the room, straining inwards to contain _something_.

Daylen just hoped it wasn’t another Pride demon.

“Oh look! Someone’s come to play!” Daylen looked over for the source of the voice, hoping it wasn’t a possessed child. One of those in a lifetime was enough. Spotting a little blonde girl in pigtails, Daylen approached, noting the orange tabby cat that was sitting next to her. Behind them, a field of moving tiles with mana leaping from tile to tile occupied most of the room.

“You _have_ come to play, haven’t you?” the girl asked. “We’re playing a guessing game. It’s better with more people.”

Daylen heard Cupcake pause next to him and growl angrily. “You are Amalia, right? There isn’t some _other_ little lost girl around here?” The girl nodded. “So who is ‘we?’”

“Kitty and me, of course! You don’t see anyone else here, do you?” Daylen looked closer at the cat and felt a chill go down his spine as he realized where the room’s prisoner was. “Anyway, you should go if you’re not going to play,” Amalia went on. “Kitty finds you distracting.”

“The cat…finds me distracting?” Daylen asked carefully.

“Kitty is clever,” Amalia replied. “She says you’ll want to take me back to my father, but I’m not going. She would be lonely!”

Cupcake growled again, baring his teeth at the cat. “I would not suggest leaving in such hostile company anyhow, Amalia,” the cat said, a female voice with the typical demonic echo to it issuing from the cat’s muzzle. “Look how they act.”

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Alistair muttered.

“The cat…talks,” Zevran said flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should never have left Antiva.”

“You’re going to want to step away from that creature, Amalia,” Daylen urged.

“Nothing you say will convince Amalia to go with you,” the cat chimed in, stretching. “She loves only me now. I am her friend, while you are just a stranger.”

“I’m not leaving without the girl,” Daylen said flatly. “I made a promise.”

“It seems we are at an impasse,” the cat replied. “So let me propose a compromise, of sorts.”

“Daylen,” Wynne said warningly.

Daylen shot her an irritated look. “I’m listening. No promises, but I’m listening.”

“Release me, mortal, and let me have the girl. Let us return to her father and leave this place forever.”

“Let you have the girl?” Daylen echoed. “You mean possess her?”

“That’s _such_ a crude way of putting it,” the cat drawled. “I do not wish to harm Amalia. I merely want to see your world through her eyes. Is that so wrong?”

Daylen grunted noncommittally. “Very well.” Leliana gasped, and Alistair gave Daylen a hard look for several seconds before his lips twitched upwards briefly.

“ _What_?” Wynne exploded. “You would seriously consider this?”

“Wynne, do you trust me?” Daylen asked pointedly.

“I…yes,” Wynne said.

“Then trust me,” Daylen urged.

“Thank you,” the cat said. “You are very gracious. The mage’s wards hold me within this chamber, and only a mortal may approach them. There is a trick to disarming the wards, but I do not know it.”

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Amalia said. “Kitty is going to be free!”

“Wynne, Leliana, stay with Amalia,” Daylen ordered as he eyed the tiles. “Alistair, Zevran, let’s see if we can sort this out.”

“You are planning what I think you’re planning, aren’t you?” Alistair asked as Daylen fiddled with a few of the tiles, watching how the mana flow changed direction.

“Of course,” Daylen replied. “I didn’t know if Wynne was going to try something, though. Glad she didn’t. I don’t want to risk Amalia’s life.”

It only took a few minutes for them to sort out the puzzle, and Daylen briefly wondered how intelligent the demon must have been to be unable to figure it out. “That’s got it,” Alistair commented as the mana jumped from one end of the puzzle to the other. “Interesting lock.”

“Yes, I can feel the magic fading,” the cat remarked. “I had forgotten how it feels to not be caged!”

“Kitty?” Amalia asked, concern creeping into her voice. “What’s happening?”

“A wonderful thing, my dear, for both of us,” the cat said victoriously.

“Keep your hands off the girl, demon,” Daylen spat. “You have a choice. Go back to the Fade or die here and now. Either way, you _don’t_ get Amalia.”

“Betrayal!” The cat hissed. “You will not take the girl! She is _mine_!”

“Kitty, you’re scaring me!” Amalia cried. “I won’t let you inside me, I won’t!” The child sprinted out of the room, and as the cat began to transform back into a demon, three separate Mana Clashes fell on the demon like hammer blows. The demon screeched, evaporating under the magical assault.

“You never intended to let her be possessed, did you,” Wynne said as Daylen dug around in the room, finding a Grey Warden-style helmet and hanging it off his belt.

“Of course not,” the Warden scoffed. “Give me a little credit, Wynne. I realize you have no trust in any mage, but you know I would never do such a thing.” The elder mage flinched at his words, and Daylen give her a sweet smile as he strode past.

The group dug up some dusty lyrium potions and little else of value before heading back up, finding another set of shades on the way back up. When they reached the basement level, they found Matthias and Amalia reunited. “You did it!” the blond man cheered as they emerged. “You freed her! Thank you so much!”

“I’m sorry I ran away, Daddy,” the girl chimed in. “I was so scared.”

“It’s all right, butterfly. You’re safe now,” Matthias said soothingly. “All the bad creatures are gone.” Turning to Daylen, the man nodded his thanks. “You’ll need the phrase to activate Shale. It’s ‘dulen harn.’ I wouldn’t want the thing, but it’s obvious you can handle yourself just fine.”

“Is the village going to be safe?” Daylen asked.

Matthias grimaced. “Some of my father’s spells laid rune lines around the village that _could_ be reactivated. He used to say they would stop anything short of a giant. I’ll look into getting those turned back on.”

Daylen nodded. “Those would stop further darkspawn attacks quite nicely.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Matthias said. “We’d be happy to put you up for the night, as you asked.”

The group moved back to the ground level, straightening out what they could as they went.

“We _may_ have a problem,” Alistair announced, looking out the window of the house.

“Now what – oh, Maker’s _balls_ ,” Daylen groaned, seeing heavy snow falling.

Zevran came up behind the two and eyed the mage warily. “You have the _worst luck_.”

“Why,” Daylen implored, looking up at the ceiling. “Why is this necessary? What did I do to you? When did I piss in your porridge? Just tell me what the issue is and I’ll do my best to rectify it!”

“Looks like we’re staying for a few days,” Alistair sighed.

—ROTG—

Daylen dumped the load of firewood into the box and groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Now I know why Jowan wanted to go back to the Circle. I’m not cut out for this farm-tending nonsense. Two days of this and I’m already sick of it.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “You slaughter darkspawn for a living.”

“Yes, but I don’t _raise_ darkspawn for a living,” Daylen countered. “Plus when I want to burn the corpses I just snap my fingers and set them on fire. I don’t bother with firewood.”

Leliana came in, carrying a load of firewood and dropping it into the woodbox with ease. “That should be the last of it.”

“You’re making me look lazy,” Daylen grumbled. “You brought two loads for every one that I brought.”

“I did this a great deal in Lothering,” Leliana replied. “Did you not chop firewood at the Circle?”

The mage barked out a laugh. “What, you think they gave us anything sharper than a butterknife? This was my first time chopping wood.”

“No wonder you looked like you barely knew which end of an axe was up,” Leliana teased.

Alistair snickered, and Daylen gave her a sheepish grin. “We all have our skills. Alistair can find cheese from a mile away, after all. You’ve got plenty of your own skills, more experience under your belt than us and all.”

“He’s got a point,” Alistair said. “I will never get over how quietly you are able to move.”

Leliana looked uncomfortable. “It took me years and years to learn and even then I am not the best at it.”

“So you didn't sneak around when spying?” Alistair asked.

The bard shrugged. “We all had different ways of doing things. Some preferred not to be seen at all, to cloak themselves in shadow and darkness. Zevran has those skills, although he, like I, realized that it is not such a bad thing to be seen, as long as you do not stand out and are quickly forgotten. I specialized in blending in, not drawing attention and looking like I had every right to be there. It is invisibility, but of another kind.”

Daylen nodded in understanding. “Being seen, but not noticed.”

“Exactly,” Leliana confirmed.

“Ah, yes, but I heard you often seduced your targets,” Alistair challenged. “They'd remember you.”

Leliana smirked at him. “Not if they died.” The warrior gulped, and Leliana winked at him, her lower lip between her teeth. “Dying while in the company of a lovely seductress... tell me that isn't a good death.”

“I don't know if I should take you seriously,” Alistair muttered, “but you scare me sometimes.”

“I can think of worse ways to go,” Daylen said with a shrug.

“You might just wind up going that way,” Leliana commented.

“Oh, would you come off it?” Daylen asked. “You all bicker with each other, but you both know that if any of us were really in danger, all the rest would come running. The closest Morrigan has ever come to harming me – or any of us – was when she got a little…overenthusiastic, a while back.”

“Too much information,” Alistair said. “Look, what’s going on between you two, anyway?”

“Nothing serious,” Daylen insisted.

“The screaming would lead me to believe otherwise,” Leliana said dryly.

“Erm…Leliana, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Alistair chimed in. “Do…all women, sound like that?”

“Hardly. Some women are loud, yes, but most are only so if their partner is…gifted…in one way or another.”

It was at that point that Daylen made a break for it.

—ROTG—

Daylen screeched in pain as his shoulder dislocated. “ _That’s not supposed to bend that way!_ ”

“That’s the point,” Zevran replied calmly, keeping the limb hyperextended and pushing forward on Daylen’s shoulder, keeping the man off balance and leaning forward. “It is difficult to hit someone with an arm that will not move, is it not?” He grunted in pain as Daylen kicked out blindly, slamming the heel of his boot into Zevran’s groin. “A useful tactic, but not effective every time. Most people will be thrown off by such a blow, but some people are used to such pain.”

“Just my luck,” Daylen groaned, kicking out again and hitting Zevran in the side of the knee, knocking the elf off balance. Zevran yelped as Daylen turned on his heel, sweeping the elf’s legs out from under him and dropping hard, his knee slamming into the floorboards next to Zevran’s head. “How was that?”

“Better,” Zevran coughed. “Much better. You’re making progress.”

“Had to happen eventually,” Daylen grunted. Grabbing his injured arm, Daylen twisted the limb into position and worked it back and forth until the joint popped back into place. The Warden gasped in pain as the joint reset, and he let loose a flare of healing magic, washing away the injuries the two had just given each other.

“The snow’s stopped,” Alistair commented from the door.

“Good,” Daylen groaned, standing up and helping Zevran to his feet. “Let’s go get that golem.”

—ROTG—

“You sure you want to activate this golem?” Alistair asked when everyone was assembled in the village’s snowy square.

“Dulen harn,” Daylen said, enunciating clearly.

“Guess that answers that question,” the warrior muttered.

For a long moment, there was silence, and the others could hear Daylen’s teeth grinding. Then light began to emanate from the golem’s eyes and the symbol on its forehead, and the group took a step back as years of dust and dirt fell from the golem’s outstretched arms. The golem moved, jerking one arm forward, then the other, before stretching, the sound of stone scraping together issuing from the golem’s joints as it shook itself.

“I knew that the day would come when someone would find the control rod,” the golem said. The voice that issued from it was raspy and deep, with a note of deep, world-weary indifference. “And of _course_ it is another mage. That is what it is, yes?” Daylen nodded. “Yes. Just my luck.”

“How do you know I’m a mage?” Daylen asked, idly toying with the control rod.

“It thinks these crystals are simply for show, I see,” the golem remarked, gesturing at the crystals dotted along its shoulders. “It thinks I cannot sense the energies it commands.” The golem gave a derisive snort. “I stood here in this spot and watched the wretched little villagers scurry around me for, oh, I have no idea how long. Many, many years.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” Leliana exclaimed. “You’ve been stuck here for thirty years? That must have been... really, really boring.”

“Has it been that long?” The golem asked.

“Best as we can tell,” Daylen confirmed.

“I was just beginning to get used to the quiet, too,” the golem went on. “Tell me, are _all_ the villagers dead?”

“Not all of them, no,” Daylen replied. “Many still live.”

“How unfortunate,” the golem grumbled.

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Not a fan of the locals, I take it?”

“Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say, and after thirty years as a captive audience, I was as familiar with these villagers as one could possibly be. Not that I wished their fate on them, no, but it did make for a delightful change of pace.”

“I’ll bet,” Daylen jibed.

“Well, go on then,” the golem prompted. “Out with it. What is its command?”

“Do you have a name?” Daylen asked. “I’d rather not just refer to you as ‘golem’ or ‘oi, you with the broad shoulders.’”

It shrugged. “I may have forgotten after all the years of being called ‘golem.’ ‘Golem, fetch me that chair.’ ‘Do be a good golem and squash that insipid bandit.’ And let’s not forget ‘golem, pick me up. I tire of walking.’”

Daylen winced. “Oh, that would get on my nerves something fierce.”

The golem’s head tilted slightly. “It…does have the control rod, doesn’t it? I am awake, so it…must…”

“It certainly does, right in its hand,” Daylen said, before shaking himself. “Got me doing it.”

“I _see_ the control rod, yet, I feel…” The golem paused. “Go on. Order me to do something.”

Daylen blinked, holding up the rod. “All right. Walk over there. Stretch your legs a bit.”

The golem remained stationary. “And…nothing? I feel nothing. I feel no compulsion to carry out its command. I suppose this means the rod is…broken?”

“I suppose that means you’re free,” Daylen commented. “I mean, if you can’t be commanded, yet you’re choosing to talk to me, you must have at least something nearing free will. I would be happy about that.”

“It is simply…what should I do?” the golem asked rhetorically. “I have no memories, beyond watching this village for so long. I have no purpose. I find myself at a bit of a loss.”

“Well, I imagine you wouldn’t want to stay around here,” Daylen mused, glancing around the half-destroyed village.

“What about it? It must have awoken me for some reason, no? What did it intend to do with me?”

“Well, I could think of many uses for a personal golem,” Daylen said.

The golem seemed unconvinced. “May I ask what sorts of things it gets up to, for which I could be so potentially useful?”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Daylen replied. “I mostly woke you up because my companions and I are in need of aid against the Blight.”

“It refers to the darkspawn, the very creatures that destroyed this village,” the golem surmised. Daylen nodded. “The darkspawn are an evil that _must_ be destroyed, it’s true. Though not as evil as the birds. Damnable feathered fiends.” Nobody commented on that one. Most likely due to the creaking that came from the golem’s fists as it spoke. “I suppose I have two options, do I not? Go with it, or…go elsewhere? I do not even know what lies beyond this village.”

“Well, we could give you a map, should you choose to go your own way,” Daylen offered. “But what do you _want_ to do?”

“I watched this village for so long, unable to move or act,” the golem said softly. “My memories of anything before are…vague, at best. So I have no idea what I want to do. I am glad to be mobile.”

“If you do come along, are you going to keep calling me ‘it’?” Daylen asked.

“Yes,” the golem said flatly. “Very likely.”

A brief pause as Daylen thought that one over. “Well, I’ve been called worse. You’re welcome to come me.”

“Are you certain you want to bring that thing with us?” Alistair asked. “It could be dangerous. And large.”

“This is what we came for,” Daylen pointed out. “Think of it as a portable battering ram.”

“Good point,” Alistair acquiesced. “Better it than me, anyhow.”

“I will follow it about then, for as long as it amuses me,” the golem said. “I am called Shale, by the way.”

“Shale?” Daylen asked. “Is that supposed to be a joke?” The golem stared at him, and Daylen coughed. “I mean, is it your name, or what you’re made of?”

“It would rather I was called Flint? Pebbles? How about Rubble?” Shale gave a rasping laugh, and Daylen wondered when his life had gotten so strange. “Shall we?”

“Before we go,” Daylen asked, looking more closely at the golem. “Are those crystals in your…skin?”

“I like to think of them as accessories,” Shale replied. “I suspect that it is an art that was practiced when golems were more commonplace. My former master collected whatever lore he could find on the subject. He searched far and wide to collect what crystals he could, and then added them. It is not an unpleasant sensation.”

“Well, there’s a load of other crystals in that tower,” Daylen pointed out. “But that doesn’t tell me what they do.”

“As I understand it,” Shale explained, “the crystals allow me to alter the flow of magic around me. Wilhelm had hoped to turn me into a battery of mana, something he could tap at will.”

Wynne raised an eyebrow. “That seems odd. Did he succeed?”

“Not really, although now that I think of it, these attempts may be what caused my…disruption,” Shale admitted. “Some of the crystals increase the presence of mana, some absorb or reflect spells. There are various kinds. All I can promise is that, should it ever find one of these crystals, I can likely tell it the function and what it would do if they were added to me.”

Daylen scratched at his beard. “I don’t want to take advantage, Shale, but would you be willing to have more added?”

“Why not? I don’t get to wear clothing and other adornments like the rest of you creatures, after all.”

The mage nodded. “Well then, let’s go find some of them.”

—ROTG—

The group spread out several bundles on the snow, and Shale nodded. “I see it found some more of the crystals I told it about. Well done.”

“We brought the highest-quality ones we could find,” Daylen explained. “Some of these I can guess at. They’re aligned with the elements, aren’t they?”

“It is correct,” Shale replied. “The effects differ from element to element.”

The crystals were easily swapped out, and between the stones jutting from its shoulders and wrists the golem was reflecting far more of the weak sunlight making its way through the clouds. Barely-perceptible arcs of lightning were jumping between the crystals that had been slotted into Shale’s body.

“So?” Shale asked. “What does it think?”

“They certainly make a statement,” Daylen commented.

“Yeah, I think it’s ‘don’t mess with me,’” Alistair added.

“They don’t make me look any wider, do they?” Shale asked. “I find I am already too wide as it is.”

“Actually, they’re quite slimming,” Daylen replied. “Very lovely.”

“It must be the vertical pattern it put them in. Did it know to do that? It must have.”

Daylen grinned. “Truth be told, I did. I remember one of the enchanters back at the Circle ranting about how you should always go with vertical patterns rather than horizontal, to make oneself appear taller and slimmer.” Glancing down at the crystals that were left, he picked up one of the smaller reddish ones, feeling it surprisingly warm to the touch. “We can keep these. If you’d ever like to change them out, it doesn’t seem to be very difficult.”

“I would like to keep them. I want to glitter from ear to ear,” Shale replied. “So to speak.”

“We’re already hauling around quite a bit,” Alistair pointed out.

“I don’t think it will be a problem,” Daylen countered, handing him the crystal. “They aren’t heavy, and if nothing else the fire-natured ones will help us warm up our tents. Be useful as long as we’re up in the mountains.”

“Well, the good news is the storm seems to have passed,” Zevran commented, glancing at the sky. “We can move on soon.”

“What of the snow that’s fallen?” Leliana asked. Daylen clicked his fingers, a ball of fire flaring to life in his palm. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

The Warden sniggered. “All right then. Sten, Wynne, make sure we’ve got enough supplies to make it to the next village. Alistair, let Mathias know that we’re moving on. Zevran, Morrigan, Shale, Cupcake, come with me, let’s check those defenses that Mathias set up. We’ll see if there’s any improvements we can make.”

As they were circling the village, Daylen heard a crash from behind him, turning to spot Shale standing next to a bloody smear, surrounded by pigeon feathers. The golem shrugged at Daylen’s skeptical look, before following the others onward.

—ROTG—

“Well then,” Alistair mused, looking around. “I sure hope this wasn’t Haven.” It had taken them almost a week to reach the next village – what was left of it. The village had been destroyed. Buildings lay half-wrecked with holes ripped in the walls and roofs set alight. Corpses lay scattered around the wreckage, some in pieces. Beyond the occasional carrion bird, there were no signs of movement.

“You and me both,” Daylen replied, turning over one of the corpses on the ground and trying not to retch. “It’s a templar. Maker, he’s been…chewed on.”

“Did darkspawn do this?” Wynne asked.

“No,” Alistair said softly. “Darkspawn don’t destroy villages like this. They kill people and burn buildings, sure, but they don’t rip holes in walls like that. Even ogres don’t do that.”

Daylen sniffed the air, still crouched over the body. “Blast it. Demons. A demon did this.”

Zevran glanced over, still scanning the “How can you tell?”

“The wind shifted, for one,” Daylen replied. “That stench of drakestone? That’s the remnant of a demon throwing around magic. A _lot_ of magic.”

“How do you know?” Wynne asked. “Even Uldred did not use so much magic.”

Daylen paused. “Doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “The one thing the texts never mentioned about demons was how much they stink. But Maker, the stench. Drakestone and burnt lyrium. This acrid tang like the smell that hangs in the air after too many mages use lightning spells in a short period.” He stood, dusting off his hands.

“So where are the demons, then?” Leliana asked.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Daylen replied. “Frankly, I’m not sure it’s our problem.”

That was the exact moment Daylen was struck by lightning.

Amid the various exclamations of surprise, Morrigan drew her staff, pointing. “Demon!” Sure enough, an arcane horror was sweeping towards them, lightning crackling around its hands. Twin cracks sounded almost simultaneously as Wynne and Morrigan dropped identical mage-killing spells on it. The demon dropped, its momentum carrying it forward into an undignified tumble. The two mages cast again, igniting the corpse and ensuring the demon was properly dead.

Daylen pulled himself off of the steaming patch of snow with a groan, ignoring the smell of burning hair. Looking upwards, he blinked hard, wondering why he tasted iron. “What is this, sarcasm?”

“Daylen?” Alistair asked. “Are you all right?” The mage didn’t answer, and Alistair prodded him in the shoulder, the Warden looking over in surprise. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, real funny,” Daylen said, shaking Alistair’s hand off and standing up. “Now come on. Make some noise.”

“I am,” Alistair replied.

“I’m serious,” Daylen insisted, his speech slurring. “Talk to me!”

“Has he been deafened?” Leliana asked Wynne. “Is that common?”

“Nothing that happens to him is common,” Wynne replied, weaving magic as Daylen tried to argue with Alistair.

The azure burst hit Daylen in the back, and the mage shook his head, wiggling a finger in his ear. “What was that about?” He demanded, turning around.

“Your eardrums were injured,” Wynne said. “As you should have realized.”

“Well, everything was blue too, but thank you for that,” Daylen admitted, wiping at a rivulet of blood trickling from his nose. “What got me?”

“That demon you mentioned,” Alistair replied. “It’s dead now.”

Daylen nodded. “Good enough. We’ll make camp here for the night. Find a building that isn’t completely wrecked and we’ll use it as shelter.”

—ROTG—

“So, Wynne,” Daylen said that evening as the elderly mage rested in a salvaged chair by the fireplace. “I feel like I could learn a few things from you.”

“I do have a few tricks I could teach you,” Wynne replied. “But I feel like you have something particular in mind.”

“Your healing skill,” Daylen acknowledged. “The spirit that imparted the knowledge I use to me didn’t exactly explain how to use it. My healing is precise, yes, but it burns mana quickly and I don’t understand what I’m doing with it.”

“Very well. I will teach you as much as I can about the subject.” Daylen knelt next to Wynne, and the enchanter smiled faintly, her eyes still closed. “Get comfortable, Warden, this may take some time.”

“It may?”

Wynne shrugged. “It typically takes a spirit healer some time to properly _understand_ their abilities, let alone learn to use them, especially when they are gained in such stressful circumstances. You have excelled in learning new magics in the past, so you may pick it up relatively quickly. However, your method of gaining this knowledge seems rather unusual.” She cracked an eye open, squinting at him. “As I should have come to expect with you.” The eye closed again as she went on. “Most spirit healers enact their spells partially on their own initiative, but many of their abilities involve summoning a spirit to heal on their behalf.”

“But doesn't that risk possession?” Daylen asked, sitting down properly.

“And that is why spirit healers are amongst the closest-watched group of mages,” Wynne replied, slipping into lecture. “The benefits, however, are undeniable. The healing magic you have demonstrated thus far is already impressive, and your knowledge of the art has been greatly enhanced. You have already used the group healing spell and taken it a step beyond, to create a sustained effect. This can be very useful in combat – as you well know – but it can be a great strain on your mana. In time, you can take this magic to a field of magic, an aura that will heal all around you and cleanse your allies of debilitating magic. Now, focus. Feel your magic. Feel the pulse of your mana.”

Daylen closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, feeling his magic surging inside him. His magic felt restless, energetic and aching to run free. 

“It may seem different, having awakened this new magic within yourself, but in time it will return to normal. You will find yourself capable of healing what you previously thought permanent injuries.”

“Is there any way I can acclimate myself to the magic more quickly?”

“Using it, of course, is the best way to gain mastery,” Wynne said. “If memory serves, you did prove quite apt at learning by doing at the Circle.”

“Talking about something is all well and good, but if I don't do it, it doesn't help me much.”

“I think you will have ample opportunity for practice.”

—ROTG—

“Daylen,” Alistair said later that night. “I need to talk to you about Morrigan.”

The Warden rubbed his eyes, his mind still whirling after the lesson. “She’s been creeping up on you as a spider when you’re using the bush again?”

“No, that was last week. She stopped after I started aiming for her. Since you two have been…doing whatever it is you’re doing, it’s been…well, a little inconvenient for me.”

“I…how does that affect you?”

Alistair sighed. “Because your dog has been crawling into my tent at night!”

Daylen coughed out a laugh, pressing his fist into his mouth to try and stifle it. Alistair’s face remained stony, and Daylen fought back his giggles, his beard still twitching madly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, finally marshaling his face into a neutral state and clearing his throat. “I didn’t realize.”

“I don’t mind _that_ much,” Alistair admitted. “I used to sleep in stables, after all. And I get that there isn’t really room for him in your tent with her in there. But waking up to find you’re being spooned by a warhound is,” he paused as Daylen burst out laughing again. “ _I just don’t like being the little spoon, all right_?”

“Lover’s spat?” Zevran asked, walking by.

“Indeed,” Daylen wheezed. “Between him and my dog.”

“Oh, my,” the elf drawled. “Leliana owes me money.”

“I’m going to get you for this,” Alistair promised Daylen.

“Relax,” Daylen replied, still chuckling. “I’ll have a talk with him. Maybe I can convince him to let you be the big spoon.” Alistair slugged him in the shoulder.

Sten sat down nearby, his sword out and a whetstone in his off hand as he inspected the blade for wear or nicks in the firelight. Cupcake sat up, padding over to the warrior.

The giant regarded the dog for a moment. “Yes, it is good to have my sword at my side again.” He held the blade up, the weapon catching the light. Cupcake sat down, watching the Qunari attentively as he went on. “I call her Asala – the soul, _my_ soul. She is forged from rare blue steel, and has served me faithfully for many years.” The dog’s tail thumped against the floorboards, and Sten nodded. “Yes, you understand what it is like to have a weapon that is part of you. Few others do.”

Cupcake peered up at Sten, tail wagging furiously. "We don't have time for this now," the giant said. Cupcake continued to watch him expectantly. "No, absolutely not." The dog whined, and Sten glared at him. "There is no time. We have work to do.” Another whine, and Sten sighed mightily. “Fine. Bring me the stick. But this is the last time, I swear it.” The dog barked happily, scrambling across the floorboards for a stick as Sten stood up.

“You really are a softie,” Leliana teased.

“I am not,” the giant insisted.

“Aren’t you? I saw what you were doing back there.”

Sten froze. “Oh?”

“Don’t play innocent with me,” Leliana challenged.

“What are you talking about?”

“You,” Leliana replied. “Outside, you were picking flowers!”

A brief pause. “No I wasn’t,” Sten said flatly.”

“You were!” the bard insisted.

Another pause. “They were medicinal.”

“You’re a big softie!”

“We will never speak of this again,” Sten said flatly.

“Softie!” Leliana sang.

“Stop that,” Sten growled.

Leliana giggled. “I can't help it! You are so big and stoic! Who would have thought you'd be a big softie?”

“Stop saying that,” Sten snapped. “I am a soldier of the Beresaad. I am not a ‘softie.’”

Leliana chuckled again. “Softie.”

Sten sighed. “I hate humans.” Cupcake barked outside, and Sten seized the opportunity, making a hasty exit.

Alistair looked over at Daylen. “We’re never letting him live that down, are we?”

“Nope,” Daylen said.

“Never,” Leliana added.

“Not a chance,” Zevran finished.

“You are all terrible people,” Wynne commented, cracking open a book Daylen had leant her.

“That’s not fair, Alistair’s royalty,” Daylen shot back. Alistair scowled at his words.

“Speaking of which,” Leliana said slowly. “There are many great tales of lost kings who return to their lands to reign in glory.”

“I am not lost,” Alistair said flatly. “Nor, for that matter, a king. And there is nothing glorious about me.”

“You are Maric’s son,” Leliana pointed out. “You are the rightful king of Ferelden.”

Alistair’s face twisted. “I’m the son of a star-struck maid and an indiscreet man who just happened to be king.” Leliana seemed unconvinced. “Look, I can’t be king. Some days I have trouble figuring out which boot goes on which foot.”

“I _did_ offer to stencil the letters on there for you,” Daylen pointed out.

Alistair gave him a mock glare. “Hush, you.”

Leliana giggled at his words. “Complete fools are made leaders of kingdoms all the time, and you're not a complete fool.”

“What an utter relief,” Alistair said dryly.

“And don't worry about the boots,” Leliana added. “Kings don't need to dress themselves. That's what advisors are for, isn't it?”

“And star-struck maids, apparently,” Alistair grumbled.

That was when Zevran chimed in. “You know, Alistair, Antiva has a long tradition of royal bastards.”

Alistair was clearly growing uncomfortable. “You don't say?”

“Oh, yes,” Zevran replied. “They've led wars to claim the throne. Some of them have become kings. In fact, I'd say the current royal line in Antiva stems from bastard blood several times over.”

“Well aren't you just chock full of useless trivia today,” Alistair said acidly.

“Sadly, whenever a royal bastard rears their head in public and declares themselves, it often goes poorly for them.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Let me guess: they get assassinated?”

“Only the very popular ones,” Zevran admitted.

“And the unpopular ones?”

“Well, they get by somehow, I'm sure,” Zevran said with a shrug. “There was one fellow who did quite well working as a prostitute based on his uncanny resemblance to the king. Charged a fortune.”

Alistair arched an eyebrow. “Couldn't afford him, I take it?”

Zevran barked out a laugh. “That cynicism will serve you well, my friend. Hold onto it.”

Pressing the momentary advantage, Alistair changed the subject. “So why would the Crows send you, Zevran?”

“Is there some reason why they should not?”

“Plenty of reasons,” Alistair said. “Starting with the fact that you weren't exactly the best they had, were you?”

“Slander and lies,” Zevran replied, feigning indignation. “For shame, Alistair.”

“I'm not an idiot,” Alistair challenged. “Well, not most of the time. You're no raw recruit, but I've seen you fight. You're no master of combat, by any means.”

Zevran shrugged. “Assuming that I intended a fair fight, that would indeed be a problem.”

“But the Crows must have master assassins, the way you describe them,” Alistair pressed. “Men with years and years of experience. Why not send them?”

“Why not, indeed? It is a mystery for the ages.”

“Oh, I get it,” Alistair concluded. “You're not going to tell me.”

“Morrigan said you were sharp. No liar, she.”

“He doesn’t have to tell you,” Daylen said. “It’s not a secret.”

“Oh?” Zevran asked. “Then why did the Crows not send their best man?”

“Even _I_ know that the Crow’s best don’t leave Antiva for anything less than assassinating royalty or enemies of the state,” Daylen said. “And I also know that nobody wants to mess with the Grey Wardens. Not just because we’re known as fearsome warriors, but because its poor form to kill a group that protects you from darkspawn.” Daylen eyed the elf. “You were the only one who would take the job, weren’t you.”

Now it was Zevran’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Even in Antiva, killing members of your order is considered... impolitic. It made the guild's decision considerably easier, I imagine. And I made the best bid.

“Best bid?” Alistair echoed.

“We agree to pay the guild a portion of whatever the contract offers,” Zevran explained. “The one who agrees to pay the most gets the contract, so long as the guild deems them worthy. And against a pair of Grey Warden recruits, they thought I was worthy.”

“And were there any other offers?” Daylen prompted.

“None.”

Daylen looked slightly smug. “Well, that's comforting, somehow,” Alistair murmured. “So how much did you charge to... you know... kill someone? Was it very expensive? Did it depend on who they were?”

“Such curiosity,” Zevran chided. “Are you thinking of having someone murdered, my friend Alistair? Or are you considering a career change?

Alistair shook his head. “No, neither. It just seems odd to me that you could make a living doing that. Or that you would need an entire guild just to handle so many... jobs.”

“Ahhh. Assassination in Antiva is a tradition,” Zevran explained. “It is more efficient than an election, as we say. ‘Politics and death go together like kisses and love-making.’ It costs a great deal depending on how experienced the Crow is... and how difficult the target is to kill. You? I would charge perhaps five thousand _andris_ for you.”

Alistair looked somewhat flattered. “Five thousand _andris_? Is that a lot?”

Zevran grinned. “Not really, no.”

Alistair frowned, but moved on. “So I have a question for you, Zevran. You're here, at least in part, to get away from the Crows, right?”

“That is indeed true.”

“So when this is over, what do you intend to do with yourself?” Alistair asked. “You can't go back to Antiva, I assume.”

“What I do depends in large part upon your fellow Grey Warden,” Zevran replied, jerking his head at Daylen. “I am not a free man, as it were.”

Alistair nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, but what if you could do whatever you wanted?”

“Oh, I don't know. Aren't you going to be king? Perhaps you have people you need killed?”

“I’m not going to be king,” Alistair insisted. “But I probably do, yes.”

“See? It's that sort of thinking that makes me think I have a future in this fine country of yours.”

“That's assuming I would hire you,” Alistair pointed out.

Zevran nodded. “That's the lovely thing about kings. They make for good business, as the client or the target.”

“And people wonder why someone might not want to be king,” Alistair grumbled.

—ROTG—

_Chantry Hierarchy  
The Divine is the titular head of the Chantry, although since the schism split the Imperial Chantry into its own faction there are now in fact two Divines at any one time. One Divine, informally called the White Divine, is a woman housed in the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux. The other, known as the Black Divine, is a man housed in the Argent Spire in Minrathous._

_Neither Divine recognizes the existence of the other, and the informal names are considered sacrilegious. No matter the gender, a Divine is addressed as “Most Holy” or “Your Perfection.”_

_Beneath the rank of Divine is the grand cleric. Each grand cleric presides over numerous chantries and represents the highest religious authority for their region. They travel to Val Royeaux when the College of Clerics convenes, but otherwise remain where they are assigned. All grand clerics are addressed as “Your Grace.”_

_Beneath the grand cleric is the mother (or, in the Imperial Chantry, the father). If a mother is in charge of a particular chantry, “revered” is appended to her title. These are the priests responsible for administering to the spiritual well-being of their flock. A mother or revered mother is addressed as “Your Reverence.”_

_Brothers and sisters form the rank and file of the Chantry and consist of three main groups: affirmed, initiates, and clerics. Affirmed are the lay-brethren of the Chantry, those regular folk who have turned to the Chantry for succor. Often they are people who have led a difficult or irreligious life and have chosen to go into seclusion, or even orphans and similar unfortunates who were raised into the Chantry life. The affirmed take care of the Chantry and are in turn afforded a life of quiet contemplation, no questions asked._

_Only those folk who take vows become initiates. These are men and women in training, whether in academic knowledge or the martial skills of a warrior. All initiates receive an academic education, although only those who seek to become Templars learn how to fight in addition._

_Clerics are the true academics of the Chantry, those men and women who have dedicated themselves to the pursuit of knowledge. They are often found in Chantry archives, sages presiding over libraries of books and arcane knowledge. The most senior of these clerics, placed in charge of such archives, are given the title “elder,” although such a rank is still beneath that of mother. All other brothers and sisters are addressed simply by noting their title before their name, such as “Brother Genitivi.”_

_—From a guide for ambassadors from Rivain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	17. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes finally get to Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_The Founding of the Chantry  
_ _Kordillus Drakon, king of the city-state of Orlais, was a man of uncommon ambition. In the year -15 Ancient, the young king began construction of a great temple dedicated to the Maker, and declared that by its completion he would not only have united the warring city-states of the south, he would have brought Andrastian belief to the world._

_In -3 Ancient, the temple was completed. There, in its heart, Drakon knelt before the eternal flame of Andraste and was crowned ruler of the Empire of Orlais. His first act as Emperor: To declare the Chantry as the established Andrastian religion of the Empire._

_It took three years and several hundred votes before Olessa of Montsimmard was elected to lead the new Chantry. Upon her coronation as Divine, she took the name Justinia, in honor of the disciple who recorded Andraste's songs. In that moment, the ancient era ended and the Divine Age began._

_—From Ferelden: Folklore and History by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar._

—ROTG—

“You smell that?” Alistair asked a few days later. “Wood smoke.”

“This has to be it,” Daylen declared. “It’s the only settlement left to check. Genitivi had better be here. If he isn’t…”

“We’ll deal with that problem if it happens,” Leliana said firmly.

“Let’s keep going, then,” Daylen urged. “This trail has to lead someplace.”

The path began to even out, a low wall surrounding the outside of a village. The buildings were rough-hewn stone and unvarnished wood, but were of a style that Daylen had never seen in person.

“These buildings are…ancient,” Daylen pronounced after a minute’s examination. “I’ve only seen drawings of them in historical accounts from the Divine Age.”

 “What are you doing here?” a voice asked from behind them. Cupcake growled, and Daylen turned, spotting a guard in leathers standing a few yards away. His sword was still in its sheath, but the man was gripping the pommel, his face stony.

Daylen fought to keep his face neutral as he looked the man over. The guardsman accosting them had the same skin tone as the imposter Weylon and wore leathers of the same style as the assassins they had met at Lake Calenhad.

“What are you doing here?” The guard repeated. “There’s nothing for you in Haven.”

“So this is Haven?” Alistair asked.

“What do you want?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Is there a Brother Genitivi here?” Daylen asked, before mentally kicking himself for the lack of subtlety.

The man looked confused. “Who? Perhaps Revered Father Eirik will know of whom you speak. Unfortunately, he is ministering to the villagers at the moment, and cannot be disturbed. I suggest you seek your brother elsewhere.”

“Revered _Father_ Eirik?” Daylen parroted. “Aren’t priests women?”

“It has always been thus in Haven,” the man said testily. “We do not question tradition.”

“I meant no offense,” Daylen replied quickly. “Please pardon my curiosity. Are your traditions very different from ours?”

“Our ways are not the ways of the lowland cities.”

“I would treat your village with the respect it deserves,” Daylen went on. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

The guard seemed torn. It was clear he wanted them on their way as quickly and as quietly as possible, but Daylen’s courteous approach had backed him into a corner. “Ask and be on your way,” he said finally.

“How long has Haven been here?” Daylen asked.

“Haven has always been here,” the guard answered. “My family knows no other home.”

“Is that man you mentioned before – Revered Father Eirik – is he in charge of the village?”

“Father Eirik is our spiritual leader and guide. He is in the Chantry, giving a sermon. You should not disturb him.”

“Of course,” Daylen acceded. “To do so would simply be rude. Now, our lowland records aren’t complete, but why haven’t I heard of Haven before? It seems a beautiful place.”

“We keep to ourselves,” the guard replied. “We see no need to announce our presence to the world. It is more peaceful that way.”

Daylen nodded. “I can understand that. Nothing wrong with enjoying one’s privacy.”

“Then perhaps you should return to the lowlands,” the guard said softly.

“We’ll be on our way shortly, but do you have a place we could buy supplies?” Daylen pressed. “It’s a long way down the mountain.”

A long pause. “You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish,” the guard ground out, pointing at a building off to the group’s right. “Then I suggest you and your companions leave.”

“Thank you,” Daylen said warmly. The man grunted in reply, stalking off.

“Anyone else got a _really_ bad feeling about this?” Alistair asked.

“Ah, quiet, insular communities,” Zevran commented. “There’s always something nasty going on behind closed doors.” He paused. “I hope it involves chains.” Another pause. “I hope they ask me to join in.”

“Focus, Zevran,” Daylen prodded. “Anyone got any experience with this?” A long pause. “Joy.”

“How’d you do that?” Alistair asked. “That guard didn’t want to give us any of that information.”

“Zevran told me about it the other day,” Daylen replied. “I didn’t think it’d work, but when someone wants you to leave quietly and can’t just kill you, just be polite and keep talking until they go with it to shut you up.”

“Well, either way, it works,” Alistair replied.

“Warden, a moment,” Sten said suddenly.

The mage glanced over. “Something on your mind, Sten?”

“You have an interesting strategy,” the Qunari said. “Tell me. Do you intend to keep going north until it becomes south, and attack the archdemon from the rear?”

“It’ll never see it coming,” Daylen shot back.

“Truly,” Sten said flatly. “It would surprise _me_ if my enemy counter-attacked by running away and climbing a mountain.”

Daylen’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not ‘running away’ from anything,” he bit out.

“The archdemon is our goal,” Sten insisted. “And we are heading away from it. To find the charred remnants of a dead woman. I will not simply follow in your shadow as you run from battle.”

The Warden’s jaw hardened. “Well, there’s not a whole lot you can do about it. I’m in charge.”

“Not anymore,” Sten declared. “I’m taking command!”

Daylen stared at him a moment, before bursting out laughing. “You think anyone will follow you?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Sten growled, drawing his sword. “Defend yourself, Warden.”

“Not here,” Daylen replied. “You think yourself fit to take command, then have the sense to not try it when the guard over there is looking for a reason to make us leave.”

It only took a few minutes for the group to move away from the village and into a clearing.

“Everybody back.” Daylen ordered. “Sten, you still think this necessary?” The Qunari’s response had Daylen ducking out of the way as Sten brought the blade down, leaving his staff slung. To try to block Sten’s greatsword with the staff would be asking for another broken weapon. The others scattered, and Daylen backed up, keeping out of the Qunari’s superior reach. Sten had greater strength, reach, stamina, and experience. Daylen had magic.

Then Sten came at him with a roar and Daylen rolled out of the way of another overhand strike, his hand braced halfway up the dull edge of the blade. As he rolled back to his feet, Daylen grunted as the pommel of the sword came around, cracking him in the jaw. A cloud of blood and spittle sprayed from his mouth, and Daylen clapped a hand to his mouth as his vision blurred from the pain.

Sten pressed his advantage, jabbing with the greatsword and backing Daylen up as the Warden pumped healing magic into his mouth. Besides the broken jaw, Sten’s brutal assault had made one thing clear to the mage: a prolonged struggle would only favor Sten. Drawing the looted sword he had been carrying, Daylen managed to parry another strike from Sten, darting past the warrior only to catch an armored elbow in the back of the head. His ears ringing, Daylen spun and ducked as Sten turned on his heel, the blade of his sword coming around in another devastating strike. As the blade passed by, Daylen moved in close, drawing his staff in his off hand and hooking it behind Sten’s legs.  Another shot from the elbow nearly caught Daylen in the forehead, and the Warden jerked back, pulling Sten off his feet.

Daylen backed up as Sten swung blindly, the edge of the blade digging into the soft earth. Daylen slammed a boot down on the blade, pinning it and bringing the steel-wrapped end of the staff to Sten’s skull in a horizontal arc that knocked the Qunari’s helmet off, blood trickling from the giant’s ear. Rather than struggle with Daylen for control of the blade, Sten dropped the sword, tackling Daylen off his feet.

The Warden grunted in pain as Sten slammed him to the ground, planting his boots against the Qunari’s chest. It was only when Daylen tried to lever the warrior off his chest that he realized that he had grossly underestimated his ability to push him off.

“All right, new plan,” Daylen grunted as Sten grabbed him by the neck. Flashing back to the dragonling in the Brecelian Forest, the Warden twisted, moving his boot up and kicking Sten in the face. The Qunari’s nose broke under the impact, but his grasp barely budged. Two more shots to the face had no further result, and Daylen’s head began to swim as the Qunari’s grip tightened. Kicking again, Daylen caught Sten in the ear and the Qunari grunted in pain, his grip going slack for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, Daylen scrabbled for his dropped staff, swinging it around with his remaining strength and slamming the end into Sten’s temple with a messy crunch.

The Qunari went slack, falling on top of Daylen as his grip loosened. Daylen gasped for air, feeling the giant’s unmoving weight on top of him. “Is he dead?” he rasped, clearing his throat.

He heard Alistair’s boots crunching across the snow, checking Sten over. “He’s unconscious.”

“I’m going to call that one a win,” Daylen groaned. “Now, for the love of Andraste, _get him off me_.” Alistair took a firm grip on the back of Sten’s cuirass, pulling the unconscious warrior off his friend. The mage clutched at his bruised throat, casting a fast healing spell before pushing himself to his feet and looking around at the others. “Anyone else want to challenge my leadership?”

“Why did you engage him like that?” Wynne asked.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Daylen replied, hooking his foot under Sten’s chest and flipping the warrior onto his back. Grabbing the warrior by the skull, Daylen pumped healing magic into him, and the warrior’s eyes snapped open a few moments later to find Daylen’s staff at his neck with lightning crackling across its tip. “I’ve knocked you cold once, Sten. Do you yield?”

“I was wrong,” the giant said softly. “You are strong enough. What now?”

“That’s up to you,” Daylen growled.

“Lead,” the man said simply. “I will follow.”

“Can I trust you to follow my orders?” Daylen challenged. “You clearly don’t think much of my decisions.”

“I will follow,” Sten repeated.

“Then listen closely,” Daylen snapped, pulling the staff away from Sten’s neck. “If you are a representative of the Qunari mindset when it comes to fighting a war, I am _not_ impressed. If you think gathering forces to fight the Blight is a sign of weakness, the Qunari can’t be much of a threat. I won’t needlessly throw away people’s lives, and killing the Archdemon won’t matter if we can’t _get_ to it. This is more than just fighting an Archdemon. This is fighting the Blight.”

“I have been mistaken,” Sten admitted.

“You only noticed this now?” Daylen asked.

“Enjoy this while it lasts,” Sten replied. “It won’t happen again.” Daylen extended a hand, and pulled the Qunari to his feet. “You are a soldier worth to stand among the Beresaad. I did not think so when we first met.”

“That’s why I fought like I did,” Daylen pointed out. “Had I wanted you dead, or crippled, you would have been dead before you made that first strike. I used no magic in that fight. Be aware of that, Sten.  You lost to me in the closest thing to a fair fight either of us will ever see.”

“The day will come when the arishok sends us here,” Sten said somberly. “On that day, I will not look to find you on the battlefield.”

“I hope I won’t see you then,” Daylen replied. “But the fact is, he’s already sent you here, hasn’t he.”

The Qunari paused. “Well. That…is correct.”

—ROTG—

Daylen rubbed at his aching jaw as the group re-entered Haven. “Let’s find our missing scholar.”

“So how are we going to find Genitivi?” Alistair asked.

“The subtle approach,” Daylen replied. “Pardon me,” he said as a young boy walked by them, eyeing the group suspiciously.

“Who are you?” the boy asked. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Do you know a Brother Genitivi?” Daylen asked.

The boy gave him a baffled look. “Who? Why would you come here looking for someone?” Daylen stared at him for a moment, and the boy stared back. “You should leave.”

Daylen spotted a small group of villagers staring at them from a window. Like the guard, they all had the same skin tone as the man who had impersonated Weylon. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t belong here,” the boy said. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Daylen cleared his throat. “I bet you’re a clever boy. What do you know about Haven?”

“Haven is Haven, but I have a secret,” the child replied. “Do you want to see?”

Daylen’s voice cracked as he answered. “Sure. Show me.”

The kid fished around in his pocket, pulling out a small white object. Daylen looked closer, before recoiling as he realized what it was. “Whose finger bone was that?”

“Don’t know,” the boy said with an indifferent shrug. “It’s lucky. I keep it with me. Don’t tell anyone, all right?”

Daylen took a step back. Then another. “You got it.” Turning around, Daylen made for the shop, trying not to run.

The door squeaked open, and the shopkeeper looked up, his expression turning sour as the group entered the shop. “Who are you?” He asked. “You’re not from Haven.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me that like I don’t already know it?” Daylen commented. His nose twitched as he picked up a smell.

“We…we don’t get many visitors,” the man replied.

“I got that impression,” Daylen muttered, remembering Genitivi’s house in Denerim and realizing what the smell was. Clearing his throat, he spoke normally. “Can you tell me about Haven?”

“How would you describe the place you know only as home?”

“…All right, fair point,” Daylen acquiesced after a few moments. “Have you seen a man called Brother Genitivi?”

“No,” the man said. “I’ve never heard that name. Perhaps you should-”

“Search elsewhere, right,” Daylen finished. “I’ve gotten that a bit since we got here. Could we do some trading?”

“I don’t have much, but I suppose you could take a look,” the shopkeeper replied. After a bit of trading, the group excused themselves and exited the building.

“Now what?” Alistair asked as the door shut behind them. “I’m guessing we don’t just leave.”

“Is it possible that Brother Genitivi truly is not here?” Leliana asked.

“Perhaps it would prefer I squish some answers out of the villagers?” Shale offered.

“Tempting, but let’s not resort to that just yet,” Daylen said quietly, rubbing a hand over his upper lip to hide his mouth from lip-readers. “Perhaps this Father Eirik would have answers. There are too many coincidences here. The locals look like the fake Weylon did, that guard had armor similar to the men who attacked us in Kinloch Hold, and this place is a little _too_ insular. Everyone just wants us to leave. That, plus the mention it got in Genitivi’s notes…and the smell of a rotting body in that shop?” He shook his head. “Let’s go.”

“You think perhaps these people are related to the Avvars?” Wynne asked as they climbed the hill to the next part of the village, the steeple of the Chantry rising into view.

“Possible, but unless they kept very accurate records I couldn’t be sure,” Daylen replied. “If nothing else, they have a strong sense of tradition. No Chantry sect I’ve ever heard of has had male priests. Well, barring the Black Divine.”

“We’re a bit too far from Tevinter,” Wynne commented.

“This was all Tevinter territory, but that’s not the point,” Daylen countered, pausing a few meters away from the Chantry doors. “The position of the Black Divine didn’t come into being until hundreds of years after the Chantry itself was formed, near the end of the Towers Age.”

“Daylen, does this matter right now?” Alistair pressed.

“I…” Daylen coughed guiltily, realizing he had been rambling on about history. “Sorry. Let’s do this quietly, no need to upset the townspeople by interrupting the sermon. Shale, if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside?”

“If it insists,” the golem sighed.

The door creaked open, and the group slid quietly inside, several of the townspeople inside turning to stare at them.

“We are blessed beyond measure,” a man at the head of the congregation – Father Eirik, Daylen guessed – was saying. “We are chosen by the Holy and Beloved to be Her guardians. This sacred duty is given to us alone. Rejoice, my brethren, and prepare your hearts to receive Her.” The group began to push towards an empty corner of the building, only for most of the congregation to turn to give them the same unblinking, suspicious stare.

“Lift up your voices, and despair not,” the man went on, “for She will raise Her faithful servants to glory when Her-” he paused as he noticed his audience was no longer paying attention, and followed their gaze to the group. “I understand you are new here,” he called across the room, “but common courtesy dictates that one shouldn’t interrupt.”

“Please, don’t stop on our account,” Daylen replied. “We do not mean to cause problems. My apologies for any interruptions.”

“No matter,” The priest said. “We were just about done here anyway.”

“But your Reverence,” one of the congregation protested. “We have not completed the Sacraments of the Holy Mother, or sung the Invocation.”

“Be calm, Nuada,” the priest said soothingly. “We have an honored guest. Surely the Sacraments can wait.”

“How nightmarish to live in such a rural village,” Zevran muttered with a weighty sigh. “The only entertainment being priests who go on about the Chant of this and that.”

“You think that’s bad, try _living_ with those priests,” Daylen replied quietly.

“Just once I’d like to walk into one of these places and discover a lively dance, or a drinking festival.” He paused, thinking on the matter. “Or an orgy. But alas, no.”

“That is all for today, my children,” the priest declared. “I shall see you tomorrow. For now, I should see to our visitor.”

As the congregation filed out, still giving them wary looks, Daylen approached the priest. “There was no need to end the sermon, not because of us.”

“It is better this way,” the priest said. “Many of the villagers are uncomfortable in the presence of strangers.”

“I’ve…noticed that,” Daylen replied diplomatically. “I must apologize for disrupting your village’s routine.”

“We find outsiders…disruptive,” the priest explained, removing several religious icons Daylen couldn’t recognize from the altar. Leliana’s eyes narrowed at the objects, but the rogue remained silent. “They bring others, and before long, Haven is changed. We will go to any lengths to prevent that.” The priest replaced the items in a cabinet, closing it with a quiet click. “You understand a man’s need to protect his family, don’t you?”

Daylen noticed several more men in leathers filing into the room through the entryway, armed but the weapons still in their scabbards. “I can understand that, yes. You see, we’re looking for a Brother Genitivi. He was said to be headed in this direction. I couldn’t say for sure that he was headed to this village, but we found you by accident as it is.”

“Yet you found us nonetheless,” the priest commented, his eyes meeting the apparent leader of the guard force.

“Father, I have no grudge against you or your people,” Daylen said. “I’m just here for Brother Genitivi. Hand him over and we will leave you in peace.”

“You think me a fool?” he roared. “You lowlanders would never leave us alone!”

Daylen sighed. “Look, you flaming arsehole, I’m just here for a nutty monk and the Urn of Sacred Ashes.”

The priest’s face twisted. “Get them!”

“Oh,  _balls_ ,” Daylen groaned, before throwing up his hands. “Have it your way!”

There were only half a dozen guards, but Daylen received a rather nasty surprise when the priest – he never was sure if it was Father Eirik or not – began slinging lightning bolts around. Cracking him upside the head with the butt of his staff and setting him on fire showed the priest how bad an idea that was.

“All right, now what?” Alistair asked as the last body hit the floor.

“Well, the subtle approach is clearly out,” Daylen mused, looking at the corpses scattered around.

“So then how are we going to find Genitivi?” Alistair asked.

“I thought I'd start punching things until answers came out,” Daylen said.

“Works for me!”

There was a bloodcurdling scream from outside, and the group sprinted out to find Shale redecorating the landscape with high-impact blood splatter. Four men already lay on the ground in various states of dismemberment, and another half-dozen were being violently removed from the world by the angry golem.

“So we’re just going to kill everyone, then?” Alistair asked, his face twisted in distaste at the thought.

The Warden shook his head. “Not if we don’t have to, but I don’t know if these fanatics will just let us leave.” There was a pained groan from the priest, a shuddering gasp passing his seared lips. “Sten, Wynne, Leliana, Alistair, go with Shale. Hold the door,” Daylen ordered. “Try not to kill anyone you don’t have to. Zevran, Morrigan, come with me.”

Crouching over the badly injured mage, Daylen looked at him sadly. “I can end your suffering, but I need to know. Where is Genitivi?” The man began to weave magic, and Zevran lashed out, his boot pinning the man’s hand to the floor. A wet snap was heard as the man’s wrist broke, and the priest grunted in pain as Daylen cast his own spell, draining the mage’s mana. “Just tell me and we’ll leave your village in peace.”

The man’s last words were carried on a rattling breath. “My life for Andraste.”

“Damn you for causing this slaughter,” Daylen said softly as the battle continued outside. “Let’s help the others.”

Leaving the bodies behind, the group pushed out from the church. It wasn’t a battle – between a trio of mages, several experienced fighters and skirmishers, and an angry golem, the poorly-trained villagers barely stood a chance.

It was only when the group fought their way back down the hill to the entrance to the village that the last of them scattered, fleeing for their lives – or to regroup.

“In the shop,” Daylen ordered. “I want to see whose body that is. Let’s just hope it isn’t Genitivi.”

The shopkeeper had either fled or been one of the dozens of fanatics the group had killed on the way down the hill. Daylen nearly threw up as he entered the back room of the shop, trying not to step in the blood gumming up the floorboards.

“Alistair,” he said faintly after a moment, turning over a pauldron and spotting a symbol engraved in the metal. “Isn’t this Redcliffe heraldry?”

Alistair nodded, a hand over his nose and mouth to try to shield it from the smell. “He must have been one of Arl Eamon’s knights.”

Daylen stumbled out of the room, trying to keep his stomach under control. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll search the village, maybe there will be some sign of Genitivi around here.”

It took longer than they expected, going house to house, searching carefully for hidden rooms or concealed corpses. The group even checked the village’s graveyard, looking for a fresh plot.

“We should regroup at the Chantry,” Morrigan suggested finally, gathering her cloak closer around her against the biting cold. “The sunset is near.”

“She’s right,” Daylen sighed. “We won’t be able to see anything once it gets dark. The Chantry’s defensible, we can barricade ourselves inside.”

“We need to find food first,” Leliana pointed out. “Alistair, come with me.” She glanced over her shoulder as they left. “If you hear us yelling, come running.”

The others secured themselves inside the Chantry, clearing out the bodies and digging around in the shop for food. The others had regrouped and started a cook fire by the time Leliana and Alistair re-entered the building, their faces downcast.

Daylen stood, stretching. “No luck, then?”

“These woods are bare,” Leliana said mournfully.

“There are fish in the lake,” Alistair suggested.

“You have any fishing line?” Zevran asked.

“Who needs line?” Daylen said. “Morrigan, come with me.” The witch stalked after the Warden, smiling smugly at the bard as she passed by.

She found the mage standing at the edge of the lake and tugging his gauntlets off. “Now, the trick is going to be not killing _all_ the fish in the lake,” Daylen said, arcing some lightning between his hands and nodding in satisfaction. “We don’t know how long we’ll be here. Don’t want to wreck the place.” Dipping his hand into the water, he looked at Morrigan. “I don’t suppose you count a heron amongst your alternate forms?”

“A raven,” Morrigan replied archly.

“Well then, I hope you don’t mind swimming,” Daylen said, the lake lighting up as he pumped a brief burst of lightning into the water. Moments later, a dozen fish floated to the surface, dead from the shock. Standing up, Daylen kicked off his boots, tugging his clothes off. “Fancy a dip?”

Rolling her eyes, Morrigan quickly disrobed, and the two mages plunged into the icy water, lobbing the fish onto dry land as quickly as possible and trying to ignore their teeth chattering.

Their job done, both Daylen and Morrigan paddled for shore, shaking water from their bodies as they stepped onto dry land.

“Say nothing,” Daylen growled as Morrigan’s eyes dipped below his waist. The cold was affecting him more than he would like.

“Then avert your eyes,” Morrigan drawled, a burst of fire igniting in her palm and warming the air around them.

Daylen dragged his eyes away from the nude witch and quickly dressed, layers of wool and cotton cutting back on the chill of the mountain air. Piling the fish into a looted basket, the two returned to the Chantry in triumph.

After dinner, the group had barricaded the door, Shale standing watch next to the door. Wynne, Leliana, and Daylen were rooting around in the bookshelves, looking for clues, while Alistair cleaned up the cooking pot. Cupcake nosed at Leliana’s hand, whining insistently. The bard smiled down at the dog. “You are such a handsome dog. I think that every time I look at you.” Cupcake barked happily. “Lady Cecilie—I lived with her after my mother died—had a dog. A small one, bred to fit under the arm and in the lap.” She looked back at the bookshelf, her eyes narrowing as she thought back. “What did she name it...oh, yes. Bon-Bon. Oh, Bon-Bon was a terror. He would hide, you know, when he saw you coming...” She shook her head. “And then he would attack your ankles. Razor-sharp teeth in the ankles... very painful. He attacked me once. Latched onto my leg. I thought it was a diseased rat and kicked. Bon-Bon flew across the room and over the banister.” Cupcake whined, and pulled back slightly. “He survived, but he never came near me after that.”

“Please don’t kick my dog,” Daylen called from across the room, lobbing a book over his shoulder.

“I would never!” Leliana protested, looking scandalized. She knelt, scratching Cupcake behind the ears. “I would _never_ kick you.” The mabari snuffled happily, licking her cheek. “I have been setting down, in ink, the tales of our exploits, and I have been thinking about ways to describe you. You are unlike any animal I have ever met, almost human in your intelligence and understanding.” She rubbed her thumbs across the top of his head, and the dog’s tongue lolled out. “So, let me see... you are loyal, yes? That one is obvious. Very, very clever... this is also obvious. You are terrifying when you have to be, but gentle and sweet as a dove at other times. And you are also playful... sometimes gluttonous—” The dog jerked back, interrupting her with a series of short, sharp barks.

“I don’t think he likes that description,” Daylen translated.

Leliana raised an eyebrow, giving the dog a pointed look. “No? What is all this begging for food scraps then?” Cupcake lay down, whining pitifully. “Well, all right,” she acquiesced. “You're not gluttonous. You're just... a lover of fine foods. How's that?” The dog barked happily, tail wagging, and Leliana looked around. “I want it known, he’s the only one who gets to choose his description!”

Daylen sat down on a pile of books, frustrated. “Not so much as a mention of the Ashes,” he groused. “This _has_ to be the Haven Genitivi went to. At least one of the knights made it here, he _has_ to be here!” Cupcake pawed at his leg, and Daylen glanced down. “What, you telling me you know where he is?” The mabari chuffed at him, before barking at a stone wall. “You’re joking.” The dog turned, giving him a look that implied an utter lack of confidence in Daylen’s intelligence. The Warden stood up and went to the wall Cupcake was pawing at, finding a seam. “Oh, _come on_.” Finding the hidden catch, Daylen groaned as the door slid open.

“All that time we spent searching the village and he was _right here_?” Alistair asked, smacking himself in the forehead as they saw a man bound and gagged on the floor of the hidden room.

The Warden worked the gag out of the man’s mouth, cutting his bonds and giving him a waterskin. “Brother Genitivi, I presume,” Daylen said. “It’s…an honor.”

“Who are you?” The man asked. “They’ve…they’ve sent you to finish it?”

“They’re the ones who are finished,” Daylen said darkly. “We ran them off.”

“You’re not one of them,” the man realized. “Thank the Maker. Yes, I am Genitivi.”

The Warden smiled. “My name is Daylen Amell. I’m a Grey Warden.”

The brother sat up, grimacing in pain. “What brings you here?” Genitivi asked.

“Long story,” Daylen said. “We read your notes, back in Denerim. I was starting to think we’d never find you.”

“They take great pains to keep Haven hidden,” Genitivi replied, trying to straighten his leg out and grunting in pain.

“How badly are you injured?” Daylen asked, probing at the man’s foot.

“The leg’s not doing so well, and…” Genitivi’s eyes widened as Daylen wiggled the man’s foot back and forth. “I can’t feel my foot.”

“We’ve got two healers on hand,” Daylen reassured him. “Just hold still.” Between Wynne and Daylen, it only took a few minutes to get the brother back on his feet.

“That feels much better,” Genitivi said. “But I don’t have time to rest now. I’m so close. The Urn is just up that mountain.”

Daylen blinked in surprise. “It’s here? The Urn of Sacred Ashes is here? How do you know?”

“I have heard the villagers talking,” Genitivi replied. “Haven lies in the shadow of the mountain that holds the Urn. There is an old temple there, built to protect it. The door is always locked, but I know what the key is. Eirik wears a medallion that opens the temple’s door. I’ve seen what he does with it.”

“Eirik,” Daylen said. “He’s the bloke with the beard, their leader?” Genitivi nodded. “All right, I sort of set him on fire, so let’s hope the key survived.” It only took a minute to retrieve it. The large bronze disk bore the symbol of Andraste under the soot and bits of charred flesh. “This it?”

Genitivi took it with a look of distaste mixed with curiosity. “Yes, that’s your key. Take me to the mountainside, and I will show you.”

“You’ve been badly injured,” Daylen replied. “You should stay here.”

“I’ve spent the last several years searching for the Urn,” Genitivi said stubbornly. “I cannot turn back now.”

Daylen pursed his lips. “And what happens if you find something up in that temple that doesn’t agree with the official Chantry story?”

Genitivi snorted. “Warden, my old teacher had this saying. ‘Wondrous is man and mysterious the ways of the Maker. And I would have no one shield my eyes from the glory of His works.’”[1]

“And what exactly does that mean?” Alistair asked.

“It means the good brother is coming along,” Daylen explained.

“The Chantry is one thing,” Genitivi added. “Finding the worldly remains of the Maker’s bride…quite another.”

“We’ll go at first light,” Daylen said. “It’s too dangerous to go now. We’ll douse the fire, stay quiet. If there’s anyone else out there, maybe they’ll think we’ve left.”

It was cold, quiet, and dark in the Chantry as the group waited for daylight. “To be so close, after so long, and have to _wait_ ,” Genitivi chuckled, wrapped up in Daylen’s blanket. “I thought I knew patience. Apparently not.”

Daylen grinned. “Can you answer some questions for me?” Genitivi nodded. “Haven. It’s a little odd, isn’t it?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t what I expected it to be,” Genitivi said. “The villagers seemed intent on finding out personal information about me. Where I grew up, things like that.”

“They were planning to place someone in Denerim to impersonate you,” Daylen explained. “One of their men was posing as Weylon.”

“An imposter?” Genitivi’s face grew grim. “What happened to the real Weylon?”

Daylen winced. “I’m sorry, Brother. They killed him.”

Genitivi hung his head. “Oh, poor Weylon…I should never have dragged you into this.” He sighed. “Maker take you into his hands, my boy.”

“We recovered his body, gave it to the Chantry for the proper services,” Daylen said. “If that helps.”

“It doesn’t, not really,” Genitivi replied softly. “But it’s all the more reason to find the Urn. He believed in me even when I lost faith in myself. So many people have died for this already. Weylon, the knights that were sent looking for me…” Daylen winced, and Genitivi nodded. “Oh yes, I know. Eirik said they were ambushed, some killed, a few brought back to Haven to be questioned. He was so self-righteous about it, so _smug_. He seemed pleased that he had tortured and murdered these men.”

“Well, he’s not going to be bothering anyone else for a while,” Daylen growled. “Unless they mind the stink of his corpse.”

“Good,” Genitivi said harshly. “Eirik and his fellows were a blemish in the Maker’s sight. If the Maker would even deign to look upon this world, that is.”

Daylen shook his head. “Keep your hope, Brother. We lose hope, we lose everything.” He paused. “Speaking of hope…the Ashes _will_ cure Arl Eamon, won’t they?”

“Cure Arl Eamon?” The scholar looked baffled. “Is the Arl sick? What happened?”

Daylen groaned. “Oh, dear. I forgot that you may have missed some things. All right. There’s a Blight going on, here in Ferelden. The king, most of the Fereldan Grey Wardens, and a large portion of the army died at a battle at Ostagar, trying to stop the horde. Teyrn Loghain declared himself regent, and there’s more or less a civil war going on.”

“More or less?” Genitivi echoed.

“All right, all right, the people are too busy killing each other to fight the darkspawn,” Daylen sighed. “The Couslands were killed by Arl Howe, some ridiculous accusation of consorting with the Orlesians. Arl Eamon was the biggest opposition left to face him, and he mysteriously fell ill right before this all happened. He was poisoned. We can’t identify the agent and we can’t find an antidote. The Sacred Ashes are the last option we have to save Arl Eamon. Without him, the nobles are too busy arguing among themselves to stop Loghain.”

“I certainly hope that the Ashes will save him,” Genitivi said. “The legends speak of their miraculous powers. There are many stories of pilgrims being healed, the blind seeing, and the lame dancing in joy. Perhaps it is Andraste that does this. Perhaps it is belief itself: by believing the Ashes are magical, you make them so.”

“There are a lot of things we don’t know about this world,” Daylen agreed with a shrug. “As long as it works.” He scratched at his beard, noticing some of his companions listening intently. “Talk to me about these cultists.”

Genitivi’s face lit up. “From what I can tell, they trace themselves  back to the third group of the Alamarri tribesmen, the ones that returned to the mountains. The other two moved into the Ferelden Valley and the Korcari Wilds. These Avvar have changed little throughout the ages. They’re far from united, and this group seems to have adopted something similar to Andrastian beliefs ages ago. Their religion seems to have…drifted, from what we know as Andrastian beliefs these days.”

“Amazing,” Daylen said. “These people were like the Daughters of Song.”

Alistair looked confused. “Who?”

“A pre-Chantry Andrastian group,” Genitivi said softly. “They were a pacifistic fertility cult.” He glanced over at Daylen. “Much the opposite of these...gentle folk.”

“What happened to them?” Zevran asked.

“You have to ask?” Daylen snorted. “Emperor Drakon and the Chantry wiped them out. A prosperous, nonviolent group of people who lived in a rather nice place - out in the Fields of Ghislain - who refused to arm themselves even in the face of an invasion.”

“But the Chantry didn't like how the Daughters were worshipping Andraste, so they had to go,” Genitivi finished. “The Chantry has...not always done what was best.”

Daylen looked like he wanted to say more, but merely cleared his throat. “Regardless, these people must have been around since before the rise of the Chantry. We're talking about hundreds of years, at least.”

“They’ve had that long to become fanatics,” Leliana said softly. “They will not give up easily.”

“They won’t stand in our way,” Daylen replied, his eyes dark. “We must not fail.”

—ROTG—

“Here we are,” Genitivi said as they approached the door. The tunnel had started from the village’s Chantry, pushing deep into the mountain. “Let’s see if I remember…” He fiddled with the medallion, grimacing as the heat-warped metal ground against itself. “Yes, you see, it can be manipulated, just like this…” With a flick of the wrist, the disk bloomed into an oddly-shaped key that Genitivi slotted into the door.

“And how did you know how to do that?” Daylen asked in amazement.

“There are very few keys like this left in the world, but I have seen some. When you find the right combination, it just…feels right. It is hard to explain.”

The lock clicked open, and Daylen put out a hand, gently stopping Genitivi from going first and signaling to his companions. Alistair and Leliana went first, followed by Daylen and Sten, with the others coming through slowly as they entered a massive hall, the ceiling caked in ice. A large brazier was crackling with fire at the other end of the hall, and Leliana’s bow was sweeping back and forth, an arrow nocked and drawn as she searched for any sign of life. Finally, she glanced over at Daylen, shaking her head.

“What I would give to have seen this hall in all its splendor, as it was meant to be,” Genitivi said wistfully. “Still sweep away the ice and snow, and traces of beauty remain.”

“You need to stay alert now, Brother,” Daylen warned.

“I know, but these carvings were created just after Andraste’s death!” Genitivi protested. “They may reveal things about Her life we do not yet know. I need more time to study these statues and carvings.”

“You want to stay here? Is it safe?”

“I don’t think there are any villagers here, and I am no warrior,” the brother said. “I could not keep up with you. Go, I will be all right. Perhaps my destiny was only to lead _you_ to the Urn.”

“All right then,” Daylen said. “Cupcake, stay with him. If you smell anyone who isn’t us approaching…get Genitivi and hide.” The dog barked. “Brother, is there anything else I need to know about the temple?”

“It was designed to protect the Urn from those who would steal it, or do harm to it – namely the Tevinter Imperium. It will be dangerous to anyone attempting to reach the Urn, mage or no.”

“What sort of dangers are we talking about here?” Leliana asked.

“I’m not sure,” Genitivi admitted. Morrigan rolled her eyes. “The legends were never very specific on that point.”

“They rarely are,” Wynne grumbled. “Ancient texts rely far too much on idiom and euphemisms.”

“The text says ‘only the faithful shall lay eyes on the Sacred Ashes; death and misfortune await the unbeliever. The Maker’s gaze has fallen on Andraste’s final resting place. He weeps for His Beloved, and His wrath at Her betrayers endures.’”

“So what, it’s the wrath of the Maker that strikes intruders down?” Daylen asked. “Be a bit difficult to see that coming.”

“That is what the legend says, and the Maker may indeed watch this place,” Genitivi allowed. “Read between the lines, however, and you’ll understand that it is merely a simple truth draped in hyperbole and metaphor. After all, no one wants to hear ‘Willy toiled for many a year to perfect the curious mechanisms that would send a sharpened spike up the arse of the unwary intruder.’”

Daylen barked out a laugh. “Oh, that sounds pleasant.”

“I probably would have paid more attention to my studies had the stories been written like that,” Alistair snorted.

Genitivi chuckled. “I think my decision to stay here was the best one, don’t you?”

“Try not to get in trouble,” Daylen said. “We’ll be back. I hope. Zevran, Leliana, stay close to the front. We need to watch out for traps.”

There were more cultists ahead, as well as a great deal of concealed traps that resulted in nasty, room-to-room fighting that left the group panting and splattered with blood. Most of it was from the poorly armored or unarmed cultists that attacked with nothing but bare fists and fanatic shouts, but more than once Daylen or Wynne had to break off an attack to pull a friend out of the fray and get them back on their feet.

One such fight found the group in what appeared to be a half-wrecked study or library, with a noticeably differently dressed corpse on the floor, half-buried in the ice. Daylen parried a cultist’s sword strike with his staff, the blade biting into the wood and stopping against one of the metal bands wrapped around the staff. The Warden shrugged, before letting a burst of frost from the end of the staff hit the cultist in his unarmored face. The man dropped, and Daylen slammed the butt of his staff into the man’s chest, channeling lightning down the length until the cultist stopped thrashing.

Wynne was healing a broken wrist Zevran had picked up from a mace as the others scouted the room. “Hey, Wynne,” Daylen called, pulling a thick leather-bound tome from the shelf. “Look at this. ‘Discovering Dragon’s Blood: Potions, Tinctures, and _Spicy Sauces_.’” He glanced over his shoulder. “I guess the next time we run into a dragon, we’ll make some filets.”

“You think any of these tomes are valuable?” Zevran asked, looking around as he shook out the healed limb.

“I say we take the whole blasted thing and worry about selling it later,” Daylen replied, gently tucking some rolls of parchment that were so old that they had become almost transparent into his satchel. “We’re looking at a _lot_ of history here. Most of which would probably be destroyed if the Chantry got their hands on it.”

“Some texts on the First Blight,” Alistair called from the across the room. “Nothing I haven’t seen before."

“More on dragons,” Leliana said, skimming some titles on another bookshelf. “We should come back for these.”

“Right, let’s stay focused,” Daylen agreed. “Any bets on what’s ahead?”

Alistair held up a sovereign. “More fanatics?”

He was right. There were dozens more ahead, including one particularly dense mage that decided summoning a blizzard in a tiny confined room was an excellent idea. Several ash wraiths greeted them as well, powerful shades that had pulled together ash and dust into physical forms.

Daylen was gulping down water, trying to get the icy sting of lyrium out of his throat as Alistair wiped his sword clean, grimacing at the dents in his shield that a cultist wielding a maul had left. “We’ve left the temple,” the warrior noted, glancing upwards. “We’re in some sort of a cavern.”

“Let’s just hope its stable,” Daylen said nervously. “This mountain has probably shifted over the ages.”

“Do you smell something?” Leliana asked. “Smells like that burning…stone…” she paused, looking over at the others nervously. “That we smelled in the Brecelian Forest, before that dragon showed up.”

“You mean those dragons?” Zevran asked calmly, pointing at several cow-sized dragonlings charging the group.

They may have been dragons, but they were young, and their hides had not yet thickened enough for them to resist the steel and magic the group brought against them. Pushing further into the caverns, they found pens, cages, and more drakes and dragonlings, along with truly impressive amounts of shit and bones from the cattle and livestock the dragons ostensibly fed on. Most concerning was the ominously lit room full of dragon eggs that the party carefully avoided disturbing any more than necessary.

“Daylen, promise me something?” Alistair asked as they backtracked along the tunnels. “Promise me there isn’t a giant High Dragon around here someplace that’s laid all those eggs?”

“I’m as scared as you are,” Daylen replied. “Anyone have any experience in fighting full-sized dragons?”

“Cripple it, blind it, bleed it,” Leliana recited as the tunnel they took emptied out through a hole in the wall. “That’s how the Nevarran dragon-hunting teams would do it. Cripple its wings, to prevent it fleeing or flying. Blind it to protect your team. Then strike, and inflict as much damage as possible until it dies.” She glanced around, noticing the properly finished walls. “We’re back in the temple.”

“Stay alert, there’s got to be more of those fanatics around,” Daylen warned. A few moments later, the temple turned back into a cavern, and several men were waiting for them.

“Stop!” Their leader bellowed. “You will go _no further_!”

“Who are you?” Daylen asked, looking him up and down.

“You do not have the right to demand my name!” he shouted at them. “You have _defiled_ our temple! You have _spilled the blood_ of the faithful, and _slaughtered our young_!”

“Oi, they attacked us,” Daylen protested. “And we haven’t killed any children!”

“No more!” The man cried over his protests. “You will tell me now, intruder, why you have done all this. Why have you come here?”

“I’m not deaf, man,” Daylen said, wiggling a finger in his ear. “Let us be polite, if nothing else. Tell me your name, and I will tell you why I am here.”

The man subsided, but only slightly. “I am Father Kolgrim, leader and guide to the Disciples of Andraste. Kill us, and you will face Andraste. She will smell our blood and the blood of her children on you, and Her wrath will be great!”

“There’s that word again, children,” Daylen said. “You mean the dragons? Is Andraste a dragon?”

“I don’t remember reading _that_ in class,” Alistair commented. “Again, I probably would have paid more attention had that been the case.”

“She is so much more. She is even more glorious than all the Old Gods combined!” Kolgrim shouted again, far closer to the party than such a volume would be appropriate for.

“Inside voice, _please_ ,” Daylen urged.

Kolgrim turned on his heel, walking back towards his men. “The prophet Andraste has overcome death itself and has returned to Her faithful in a form more radiant than you can imagine!” He turned again, looking at the group. “Not even the Tevinter Imperium could hope to slay Her now. What hope do you have?”

“Who said we were here to slay Her?” Daylen asked. “I would sooner set my pants on fire than raise a hand to the Maker’s bride.”

Kolgrim blinked in surprise. “Truly? This had best not be some lowlander trick.”

“None of us had any idea that Andraste had returned to the world,” Daylen said smoothly, bullshitting as quickly as he could. “None of us would wish harm upon her. But our legends hold that Her worldly remains were brought here. If she has returned, what has happened to the Ashes?”

“They are still within this temple, of course,” Kolgrim replied. “But why do we need ashes when we serve the risen Andraste in all Her glory?”

“So, if you have no need for the Ashes, could you…give me the Urn?” Daylen suggested.

“So you are after the Ashes,” Kolgrim realized. “Perhaps there is a way for you to make up for your desecration of our home and temple.”

“Why do you suddenly want to cooperate with me?” Daylen asked pointedly. “Every other one of your…fellows, seemed more interested in murdering me than working with me.”

“It may be because I believe in second chances,” Kolgrim replied. “All of us stumble through the darkness before being found and shown the light. Perhaps through Andraste’s mercy, Her greatest enemy will become Her greatest champion.”

“Just say what you have to say,” Daylen sighed, his instincts buzzing.

“The Ashes you seek reside atop this mountain, watched by an immortal guardian who refuses to accept the truth of the risen Lady,” Kolgrim boomed. “Now the Ashes prevent holy Andraste from fully realizing Her new form. They are a remnant of Her past incarnation, and She cannot move on as long as they exist.”

“So, what?” Daylen asked, his patience beginning to wear thin. “You want me to toss them out a window? Scatter them in a river? What?”

“I speak not of destruction,” Kolgrim snapped. “The Beloved needs to reclaim the Ashes, to make them Her own again! All it would take is a drop of Her blood. Blood carries power, strength, _knowledge_. Through it, all the power that is held in the Ashes will be returned to our Lady.”

Daylen tilted his head back, considering the issue. “And why have you not done this, then?”

Kolgrim’s eyes grew dark. “The Guardian has foiled all our attempts to reach the Urn. He keeps what power remains from the true Andraste. He knows the Disciples, and we cannot touch him, for he draws his strength from the Ashes themselves. But you could deliver our Lady what is rightfully Hers.”

“I could just imagine the grand cleric, if she were here,” Alistair commented. “Her head would explode, I kid you not.”

“What is this talk of blood and power? And he thinks Andraste is reborn?” Leliana murmured. “It is preposterous. Oh, I do not like this.”

“So you need me to do this, and are only offering me this opportunity because you cannot,” Daylen said, the rest of his companions warily spreading out behind him. “You haven’t told me yet what’s in it for me.”

“There is a great power contained in blood,” Kolgrim explained. “Through Andraste’s guidance, we have learned to harness it.”

“Reavers,” Alistair realized. “Warriors who have unlocked special abilities through drinking dragon’s blood.” He looked to Daylen. “Bad idea. Remember what happened the last time you had to drink blood? Only _worse_.”

Kolgrim looked displeased at the warrior’s explanation. “Of a sort. It can be yours for a trivial task – a vial of blood, emptied into the Urn. That is all I ask.”

“You’re asking me to perform blood magic,” Daylen said flatly. “I realize your customs are not like ours, but where I come from, that’s somewhat frowned upon.”

“By the Chantry that was established by those that murdered the first Andraste! Why should you care what they forbid?”

“Whether or not the Chantry forbids it, blood magic is a destructive, corrupting force that you would do well to steer clear of,” Wynne interjected.

Kolgrim sneered. “Your Chantry does not know the Maker better than any other man, woman, or child. It only pretends to.”

“Finally, some common ground,” Daylen remarked. “I don’t care for the Chantry, either. But I have to admit, it’s one place I agree with them. I personally frown upon blood magic myself.” Kolgrim glared at him, and Daylen raised a hand. “But, I’m willing to hear you out. A question about your proposal here. Wouldn’t the Guardian know me as well? If he’s so powerful, wouldn’t he sense the dragon’s blood on me?”

Kolgrim waved off the question. “He waits for pilgrims to come venerate the Urn. He will assume that you are one of those.”

“You sound awfully confident about that for someone who’s presumably never tested it,” Daylen mumbled.

“The task is simple: I give you a vial of the holy Andraste’s blood, and you empty the vial into the Ashes. Whatever magic was held in the Ashes will be undone, and our great Lady will be freed from the shackles of her past life! Once that is done, you will have earned your place as our honored brother!”

“Er, I actually _need_ the Ashes,” Daylen said sheepishly. “There’s a man who will die without them.”

“You only need a small pinch for that. The rest of the power contained in the Ashes must be returned to Andraste!”

“It’s certainly a nice offer, very well-spoken and all that,” Daylen replied, turning to glance to his companions, “But I can’t help but feel like it’d be simpler just to kill the lot of you.”

“Andraste Herself will strike you down,” Kolgrim snapped. “I will not make this offer again. And if you do not work with us…we cannot allow you to leave here.”

Daylen jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You do realize how many of your friends we left dead behind us, right? Are the bodies not a clear indicator of how this is going to go down?[2] I’ll level with you, I didn’t really expect you to let us leave even if we did work with you.”

“To arms, my brothers!” Kolgrim bellowed. He made to draw the axe on his back, but the conjured lump of stone Daylen had ready sent him flying across the cavern, his breastplate buckling.

Everyone moved at the same time, Alistair parrying two swings from a cultist before the man was bodily picked up by the back of his gambeson, Shale slamming a stone fist down onto the man’s head. A putrid spray of blood and brains squirted out from under the golem’s strike, and Alistair ducked, turning slightly green. Leliana had dropped one of the cultist’s mages with an arrow through the eye socket as soon as the fight had begun, and she put another arrow downrange, spearing a reaver through the hand on his backswing. The man’s battle-axe went clattering to the floor, and Zevran ducked low, hamstringing the man and jamming in a dagger below the man’s armpit.

One of the cultist mages began weaving a spell, only for Shale to rip a rock formation from the floor of the cavern and fling it overhand, crushing him.

Another cultist engaged the Warden, and the mage found himself parrying frantically with the staff, trying to clear enough space to draw the sword he’d salvaged. After a mistimed parry, Daylen’s staff went skittering away over the stone floor of the cave, and the Warden sighed, punching the cultist in the face, the reinforced leather of his gauntlets turning the man’s teeth into a flying cloud of bone and spittle. The mage grabbed the unconscious man’s weapon – a wickedly sharp axe – and whipped it overhand into the back of the cultist Alistair was engaging.

As quickly as the fight had started, it was over, the last fanatic dropping in several pieces as Asala did its deadly work. “Where’s Kolgrim?” Daylen asked, offhandedly putting  a lightning bolt into one the bodies as it groaned.

“Tosser ran for it,” Alistair replied, wiping his sword on the dead mage. “Probably getting a surprise ready for us up ahead.”

“Let’s keep moving, then,” Daylen urged. The party took the only exit, the cavern leading into a half-collapsed tunnel that spilled out to the outside of the mountain, a dip between mountain peak hiding Avvar ruins half-swallowed by snow.

“There he is!” Leliana cried. The cultist leader was halfway to the temple, his battle-axe still strapped across his back.

“Kolgrim!” Daylen bellowed. The cultist stopped and turned, just in time for Leliana’s arrow to catch him in the neck. The man went down hard, groping at his belt.

“What’s he doing?” Leliana asked, drawing another arrow.

With his last breath, the dragon cultist blew the horn, the noise echoing off the surrounding mountains and reverberating in the icy air. “I have a bad feeling about this,” Daylen groaned as Kolgrim fell still, the horn sliding from his hands.

“For good reason,” Alistair commented weakly, pointing at one of the peaks.

A dragon was approaching. Not a dragonling, or a drake, or even a fully grown male dragon, like they had killed in the Brecelian forest. A High Dragon. Female. Big. _Angry_.

The group alternately gasped, blasphemed, or in Daylen’s case, groaned a single, heartfelt expletive.

"Well, look on the bright side," Daylen said. "Finally, we fight something that can swallow me whole."

—ROTG—

 _Andraste: Bride of the Maker  
_ _There was once a tiny fishing village on the Waking Sea that was set upon by the Tevinter Imperium, which enslaved the villagers to be sold in the markets of Minrathous, leaving behind only the old and the infirm. One of the captives was the child Andraste._

_She was raised in slavery in a foreign land. She escaped, then made the long and treacherous journey back to her homeland alone. She rose from nothing to be the wife of an Alamarri warlord._

_Each day she sang to the gods, asking them to help her people who remained slaves in Tevinter. The false gods of the mountains and the winds did not answer her, but the true god did._

_The Maker spoke. He showed her all the works of His hands: the Fade, the world, and all the creatures therein. He showed her how men had forgotten Him, lavishing devotion upon mute idols and demons, and how He had left them to their fate. But her voice had reached Him, and so captivated Him that He offered her a place at His side, that she might rule all of creation._

_But Andraste would not forsake her people._

_She begged the Maker to return, to save His children from the cruelty of the Imperium. Reluctantly, the Maker agreed to give man another chance._

_Andraste went back to her husband, Maferath, and told him all that the Maker had revealed to her. Together, they rallied the Alamarri and marched forth against the mage-lords of the Imperium, and the Maker was with them._

_The Maker's sword was creation itself: fire and flood, famine and earthquake. Everywhere they went, Andraste sang to the people of the Maker, and they heard her. The ranks of Andraste's followers grew until they were a vast tide washing over the Imperium. And when Maferath saw that the people loved Andraste and not him, a worm grew within his heart, gnawing upon it._

_At last, the armies of Andraste and Maferath stood before the very gates of Minrathous, but Andraste was not with them._

_For Maferath had schemed in secret to hand Andraste over to the Tevinter. For this, the Archon would give Maferath all the lands to the south of the Waking Sea._

_And so, before all the armies of the Alamarri and of Tevinter, Andraste was tied to a stake and burned while her earthly husband turned his armies aside and did nothing, for his heart had been devoured. But as he watched the pyre, the Archon softened. He took pity on Andraste, and drew his sword, and granted her the mercy of a quick death._

_The Maker wept for His Beloved, cursed Maferath, cursed mankind for their betrayal, and turned once again from creation, taking only Andraste with him. And Our Lady sits still at his side, where she still urges Him to take pity on His children._

_—From The Sermons of Justinia II_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1 MASH. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 Dragon Ball Z Abridged. [ return to text ]


	18. The Grey Wardens and the Last Crusade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes (ha, ha...no, really) throw down with their biggest enemy yet, air out some emotional baggage, and totally rip off an Indiana Jones movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Another chapter without having to wait several months for it? Yeah, I managed it, but I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_The Daughters of Song  
Wine. Music. Poetry. And the wanton and frenzied indulgence of carnal fancies. These things characterized the hedonistic cult known as the Daughters of Song. Calling them an order of the faithful lends them a legitimacy they do not deserve. The daughters (and sons, though they saw themselves also as "daughters") celebrated Andraste's holy union with the Maker in almost every way imaginable. And it was only the "holy union" they venerated. Andraste's life, her war, her teachings, and her sacrifice were blithely ignored._

_At its height, the Daughters of Song numbered in the thousands. They maintained a stronghold in a village called Virelay, in the Fields of Ghislain. Virelay saw a yearly event during which the Daughters of Song paraded carven images of the "Maker's Glory" through the square._

_The Daughters of Song were wiped out by the righteous forces of Emperor Drakon during his campaigns to unite all of Orlais. When the emperor's forces sacked the village, the Daughters would not arm themselves and were either killed or captured. The village was destroyed, and the cult never recovered._

_—From Before Andrastianism: the Forgotten Faiths by Sister Rondwyn of Tantervale_

—ROTG—

Daylen was less than proud of how high-pitched his voice was when he spoke. “Anyone got any ideas?”

“A High Dragon is not a joke,” Alistair said softly. “We’d best be careful. _Real_ careful.”

“Such creatures are highly intelligent,” Morrigan added. “And _highly_ territorial.”

“So we’re not going to get past it easily,” Daylen summed up, his voice faint. “All in favor of getting out of here?”

“Aye!” Zevran said.

“Aye!” Leliana added.

“Aye! Motion carries,” Alistair finished. “Retreat!”

“Enough of this,” Sten growled, drawing his greatsword. “ _Atash Qunari!_ ” The warrior charged, pelting down the half-collapsed walkway and into the valley.

“Fuck it. Nobody lives forever,” Daylen said, giving his staff a preemptive twirl and following him, the others in tow.

Sten dropped to his knees, skidding under the dragon’s snapping jaws. Asala came up and speared through the dragon’s wing near the root, carving through it and leaving a ragged wound behind as Sten barreled forward. Daylen snapped off an arc of ice that caught the dragon across the face, jerking it to one side as Leliana’s arrow pinged off its thick hide just above its eye socket. Zevran drew his own bow, firing arrows as quickly as he could draw them as Wynne and Morrigan traded off primal magic with glyphs and entropic curses. Alistair dove forward, rolling under the dragon’s other wing and slamming his sword into the beast’s side just behind the foreleg, severing something that the dragon was apparently quite fond of as it bellowed in pain and jerked to one side, slamming Alistair away. Zevran was at his side in seconds, dragging him to his feet and handing over a sword.

The Warden was casting as quickly as he could, trading intensity for volume as he rotated ice, lightning, and spirit bolts, peppering the dragon’s neck and face with magical attacks. Sten took a glancing blow from the dragon’s tail and went rolling farther down the valley, keeping a firm hold on his sword as he went.

Daylen paused in his assault as he spotted his friend go down, Morrigan dashing past him to help. “Sten!” The dragon turned, inhaling and expelling a great stream of fire at the two mages, and Daylen dove, shoving Morrigan out of the path of the flames.

The fire washed over the Warden, blowing clear through his magical shield and engulfing him in flames. The man screamed, staggering away and flailing as the dragon’s fire scorched his body.

Alistair dove, hacking away at the beast’s rear legs with the borrowed blade, intent on doing as much damage as he could. The dragon roared as he severed a hamstring, before smacking him with its tail, sending him rolling across the ground. The warrior came to a stop, bellowing in pain as his arm, ribcage, shoulder, and collarbone loudly informed him that something was seriously wrong. Alistair was flat on his back, coughing as his bent armor compressed his chest.

Then the dragon landed on him.

Not  _directly_  on him, mind you. But the warrior found out the hard way that he could hold his bladder in extreme circumstances when the dragon’s mighty paws landed on either side of him, and the beast’s massive jaws loomed open in his face.

Alistair was scrabbling for the grip of his sword, determined to at least bloody the dragon’s nose as he died when an immense torrent of lightning hit the dragon in the side of the face. The beast lurched to one side as lightning grounded itself through the dragon’s wings and limbs, and the dragon’s eye exploded in a gory mess.

The Warden had re-entered the battle. His robes were mostly burnt away and still smoking in places they remained, his staff and beard were missing entirely, and his shaggy hair had been seared short. But he was vertical, angry, and magic was boiling off of him despite the livid burns that marred his left side. “Guess who’s back, you one-eyed bitch!” Daylen bellowed, tossing off another burst of lightning to keep the dragon’s attention on him. “You forget about me? Come on, then! Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough, you _bloody overgrown lizard_!” [1]

It was questionable whether a dragon could understand the common Fereldan tongue, but Daylen’s words got the general meaning across, even as ragged and rough as his voice was. And if that didn’t work, the bolts of lightning the mage was handing out like sweets at a picnic certainly did. Alistair rolled onto his front, scrambling on his hands and knees away from the dragon as Daylen gathered another burst of magic, lightning arcing between his hands and mana swirling in the air around him. The dragon roared, inhaling to breathe fire at him, and Daylen roared back at it, letting the lightning bolt fly and hitting the dragon in its open mouth. The party was treated to the odd sight of a dragon choking as its throat muscles spasmed from the lightning.

“Alistair, move!” Daylen bellowed, lobbing  an arc of fire at the dragon’s remaining eye, trying to distract it. The warrior groaned, trying to move against his injuries.

The dragon snorted and spat a glob of fire that battered the mages shield, but dissipated against the magic. "You can't have him!" Daylen shouted, hitting the dragon with another bolt of lightning. "I will kill you before you touch him again!"

Daylen saw the dragon inhale to breathe fire and dug deep, the air around him crackling as ice crystals formed in the air. The dragon exhaled a stream of searing flame, and the attack met Daylen's own stream of frost, the two attacks exploding into a wall of steam at the point of contact. The two combatants pushed hard, arrows and magical attacks sinking into the beasts hide as Daylen pushed harder, keeping the dragon occupied. Daylen heard screaming and idly realized it was him making the noise as he poured everything he had into the spell, the point of contact moving closer towards the dragon as the creature’s lungs emptied.

Daylen was only limited by his mana pool, but that only bought him a second longer than the dragon.

It was enough. The frost washed over the dragons head, freezing its mouth and eyes shut and blinding it.

Daylen dropped the spell as his mana ran dry and pulled a lyrium potion from his satchel, chugging the liquid. Fresh mana coursed through him, and he glanced to Wynne and Morrigan as lightning coalesced in his hands.

"Together," he said softly as the two mages followed his lead and conjured lightning.

"Let us end this," Morrigan agreed.

Daylen nodded, thrusting both hands towards the injured dragon. "Now!"

The three streams of lightning came together and hit the dragon, smoke erupting from its side as the lightning ate through the creature’s body. The dragon staggered back from the assault, narrowly missing crushing Alistair as it did. Leliana and Zevran dashed forward, dragging Alistair out of the line of fire.

Finally, the mages let up, and the dragon collapsed, wheezing. A hole had been burnt clear through the creature’s body, a foul-smelling smoke issuing from the wound as its flesh smoldered.

“Now _that_ is ataashi!” Sten cried, before glancing around abashedly and subsiding. “Ahem. Yes.”

Daylen eyed the dragon’s corpse. “So, what do you want? Light meat, or dark?” [2]

"Daylen?" Wynne asked faintly.

The Warden turned, blood leaking from one of his ears. "I'm fine." He gestured at Alistair. "He's not." To punctuate the point, the mage keeled over backwards, groaning as he hit the floor.[3]

Wynne sighed and nudged Zevran. “Get him,” she said, pointing to Alistair. “I’ll look after Daylen.” She knelt next to the Warden, placing a hand over the man’s mouth and pumping healing magic down his airway, soothing the damage done by the heat to his lungs and throat.

“Is he all right?” Zevran asked, cutting Alistair out of his splintmail cuirass. The Warden sucked in a lungful of air as his chest was allowed to expand again, and he sat halfway up, downing a healing potion Zevran pressed to his lips.

“He was badly injured,” Wynne replied, healing a gruesome burn that cross Daylen’s face and neck. “I will do all I can.” She glanced over at Alistair. “Drink the rest of that, and then sit still. I will tend to you after him.”

“Foolish of him,” Morrigan grumbled. “He should not have done that.”

Wynne glared at her. “Show some gratitude! He did it to save your life!”

“At the risk of his own,” Morrigan shot back. “I never asked such a thing of him!”

“Look, you wretch,” Wynne began.

“Why is it I wake up to you two arguing?” Daylen croaked from his position on the ground. “We just killed a dragon, and I’m sort of injured here.” He lifted a hand, noting that the flesh was cracked open and oozing blood and some unidentifiable fluid. “Someone want to help me out here? It hurts.” His voice was faint, and there was a tinge of deep fear in his tone. Morrigan and Wynne glared at each other for another second, but both set to work, Daylen’s flesh smoothing out and returning to a healthy color as the healing magic took effect.

“He looks weak,” Alistair said quietly, leaning closer to his friend. “Is he going to die?” Wynne pulled a piece of charred flesh off of Daylen’s leg, and the Warden cried out, grabbing Alistair by the good hand in a crushing grip. “Appearances aren't everything! You can let go now!” Daylen’s grip loosened, but a burst of healing magic sank into Alistair’s arm, the bones in the warrior’s side realigning and knitting. The mage let go, and Alistair jerked back, flexing his healed arm. The warrior glanced at his armor and sighed, dropping the wrecked piece of equipment.[4]

“Get a shelter up,” Wynne ordered, healing the scorched flesh on Daylen’s leg. “He may be down for some time.”

“Not a chance,” Daylen replied, sitting up. “We need to keep moving.” His magic flared, and most of his wounds closed quickly, leaving the Warden shaking, mostly hairless, but healthy. He reached up, prodding at his face. “It’s going to take _forever_ to regrow my beard.” He probed higher. “And my eyebrows too?” He glared at the dragon’s corpse. “You had it coming!”

“Come on,” Alistair said, pulling the Warden to his feet. “We’ll scrounge you some clothes when we can.”

Daylen glanced down at the remnants of his robes. “Joy. I hope it’s not too cold in there.” He accepted the scorched remains of his satchel back from Morrigan and jerked his head at the door on the other side of the valley. “Come on.”

Inside, the temple was in much better condition, the stones well-preserved in spite of their age. A single man in heavy armor was standing in front of a door at the opposite end of the room, and Daylen reflexively groped for his staff. “Stay alert,” he hissed.

“What is this place?” Alistair asked. “It’s different from the rest of the ruins.”

“We must be close,” Leliana said. “This is holy ground. I can feel it.”

“It is _something_ ,” Morrigan allowed. “This part is unblemished, untouched by the ravages of time.”

“This place is practically infused with magic,” Wynne agreed. “Something is not ordinary here.”

“I bid you welcome, pilgrim,” the armored man said.

“You must be the Guardian,” Daylen realized.

The man nodded. “Yes, I am the Guardian of the Ashes. I have waited years for this.”

“Why have you been here so long?” Daylen asked.

“It has been my duty, my life, to protect the Urn and prepare the way for the faithful who come to revere Andraste. For years beyond counting I have been here, and shall I remain until my task is done and the Imperium has crumbled into the sea.”

“The Imperium is a shadow of its former self,” Daylen told him. “You may not have much longer to wait.”

“Then perhaps this is the beginning of the end,” the Guardian said softly.

Daylen looked sheepish. “That dragon we torched back there. That wasn’t really Andraste, right? And what’s with these cultists, the Disciples of Andraste?”

“No,” the Guardian said flatly. “Our Andraste has gone to the Maker’s side. She will not return. The dragon is a fearsome creature, and they must have seen her as an alternative to the absent Maker and His silent Andraste. A true believer would not require audacious displays of power. It all began with an ancestor of the one known as Kolgrim. He saw himself as a new prophet, preaching the rebirth. Some disagreed with him. I heard their cries of pain and loss which were quickly silenced. When my brethren and I carried Andraste from Tevinter to this sanctuary, we vowed to forever revere Her memory, and guard Her. I have watched generations of my brethren take up the mantle of their fathers. For centuries they did this, unwavering, joyful, in their appointed task. But now they have lost their way. They have forgotten Andraste, and their promise.”

“And what about you?” Daylen asked pointedly. “Who are you?”

“I am all that remains of the first disciples. I swore that I would protect the Urn as long as I lived, and I have lived a _very_ long time.”

“Has anyone else come here?” Daylen asked.

“No. You are the first.”

Daylen’s jaw dropped. “And you were among the first disciples? That’s…over a thousand years ago!”

“Long time to wait,” the Guardian said dryly. “I made a vow, to Andraste and to the Maker. My life is tied to the Ashes. As long as they remain, so will I.”[5]

“Now _that’s_ devotion,” Daylen commented. “How do I get to the Urn?”

“You have come to honor Andraste, and you shall, if you prove yourself worthy.”

Daylen flinched. “The last time someone asked me to prove myself worthy, he wanted to fight to the death. I’d rather not fight you, you seem like a decent fellow.”

“It is not my place to decide your worthiness,” the Guardian replied solemnly. “The Gauntlet does that. If you are found worthy, you will see the Urn and be allowed to take a small pinch of the Ashes for yourself. If not…”

“Fair warning, I would not be taking the Ashes for myself,” Daylen said. “A man’s life depends on the curative properties of the Ashes. What is this Gauntlet?”

“The Gauntlet tells the true pilgrims from the false,” the Guardian explained. “You will undergo four tests of faith, and we shall see how your soul fares.”

“Well, we’re screwed,” Daylen sighed. “But let’s give it a try anyway.”

The Guardian held up a hand. “Before you go, there is something I must ask. I see the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past. Your suffering, and the suffering of others. Jowan was discovered by the Templars. You were helping him. Tell me, do you think you failed Jowan?”

"Joke's on you, mate," Daylen scoffed. "Jowan and I have already made our peace."

“Very well,” the Guardian said. “How about your father, then?” Daylen flinched. “His behavior was-”

“I answered your question,” Daylen snapped. “I’m not discussing _that_.”

“You all right?” Alistair asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” Daylen replied a little too quickly.

At his words, the Guardian focused on Alistair, as if seeing him for the first time. “Alistair, knight and Warden…” He looked closer at him. “ You wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield. You could have shielded him from the killing blow. You wonder, don’t you, if you should have died, and not him?” Daylen turned, staring at his friend in undisguised horror.

“I…yes,” Alistair admitted, not meeting Daylen’s gaze. “If Duncan had been saved, and not me, everything would be better. If I’d just had the chance, maybe…” His head snapped to one side as Daylen smacked him.

“Don’t you _dare_ say he should have lived instead of you!” the Warden shouted. “One person’s life isn’t worth more than anyone else’s. Not Duncan, not mine.” Alistair rubbed at his cheek, and Daylen glared at him, his eyes glistening.

The Guardian had ignored their byplay, and after his question had been immediately turned down by Morrigan, had started in on Leliana. “And you. Why do you say the Maker speaks to you, when all know that the Maker has left? He spoke only to Andraste. Do you believe yourself Her equal?”

“I _never_ said that!” Leliana protested.

“In Orlais, you were _someone_ ,” the Guardian went on, talking over her. “In Lothering, you feared that you would lose yourself, become a drab sister, and disappear. When your brothers and sisters of the cloister criticized you for what you professed, you were hurt, but you also reveled in it. It made you special. You enjoyed the attention, even if it was negative.”

“You’re saying I made it up? For the attention?” Leliana was aghast. “ _I know what I believe_!”

“You’ve got a lot of bloody nerve,” Daylen growled. “Do you speak for the Maker? What happened to a true believer not requiring audacious displays of power? Leliana believes that the Maker has a plan for her. Who are you to say otherwise?” The bard set a hand on the mage’s shoulder, and Daylen subsided.

The Guardian’s eyes had settled on Sten, and the warrior glared back at him. “Demand whatever answers you want, spirit,” the giant rumbled.

“You came to this land as an observer, but you killed a family in a blind rage. Have you failed your people, by allowing a Qunari to be seen in that light?”

Sten’s glare intensified. “ _I have never denied that I failed._ ”

“And he’s been nothing but helpful to us,” Daylen snapped at the Guardian.

“And the Antivan elf,” the Guardian went on, clearly having dismissed the Warden.

“Is it my turn now?” Zevran deadpanned. “Hurrah. I’m so excited.”

“Many have died at your hand. But is there any you regret more than a woman by the name of-”

“How do you know about that?” Zevran demanded, his tanned face ashen.

“I know much, it is allowed to me,” the Guardian said softly. “The question stands, however. Do you regret-”

“Yes,” Zevran replied, agitated. “The answer is yes, if that’s what you wish to know. I do. Now move on.” Daylen touched him on the shoulder, and the assassin shrugged it away, shaking his head.

“Ask your question, Guardian,” Wynne said, her eyes flashing defiantly. “I am ready.”

“You are ever the advisor, ready with a word of wisdom. Do you wonder if you spout only platitudes, burned into your mind in the distant past? Perhaps you are only a tool used to spread the word of the Circle and the Chantry. Does doubt ever chip away at your truths?”

Everyone but Shale leaned forward slightly, watching the enchanter for her response. “You frame the statement in the form of a question, yet you already know our answers,” Wynne replied, glancing at the others waiting expectantly. “There is no sense in hiding, is there? Yes, I do doubt at times. Only the fool is completely sure of himself.”

The Guardian nodded in acknowledgement, either not seeing or not caring as Daylen gave Wynne a respectful nod. “Shale, the stone giant…” he tilted his head slightly, looking at her mournfully. “There is so little I can draw from you. I feel the distant echo of a soul, dormant for so long, now awake. And with the awakening, the slow realization of all you have lost. Ah, Shale, your entire existence is a test of your will and courage. You have my respect.”

“Good for you,” the golem snapped. “Can we go?” The door behind the Guardian swung open, and the Guardian shifted his stance, resuming the position he had held when the group first entered the room.

“Wait,” Daylen said suddenly. “You said you can see much of our pasts. Shale has little memory of the past. Is there anything you can see?”

The Guardian shook his head. “It has not been allowed to me.”

The golem shrugged. “Just as well. I would not trust what this spirit told me.” The group entered the next room, spotting several figures standing along the perimeter of the room.

“Joy,” Daylen groused, scrubbing at his eyes. “More shades and spirits. Leliana, Wynne, stay close. If this is a test of faith…I would say you two are the strongest Andrastian believers we have.”

“Echoes of a shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come,” the first spirit uttered as they approached. “Thought’s strange sister dwells in night, is swept away by dawning light. Of what do I speak?”

“A riddle?” Daylen muttered to himself. “I thought this was a test of _faith_. Can you repeat that?” The spirit repeated the riddle. “You’re talking about dreams.”

“A dream came upon me, as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart. It told of her life, and of her betrayal and death,” the spirit replied. “I am sorrow and regret. I am a mother weeping bitter tears for a daughter she could not save.” The spirit vanished in a flash of light as Leliana’s jaw dropped, and a dull thunk could be heard from the exit door.

“That…that was,” Leliana sputtered. “That was Brona! Andraste’s mother!”

“And that’s where the faith comes in,” Daylen muttered, approaching the next spirit.

“The smallest lark could carry it, while a strong man might not,” the spirit said. “Of what do I speak?”

“A tune,” Leliana replied immediately.

"Yes. I was Andraste's dearest friend in childhood, and always we would sing. She celebrated the beauty of life, and all who heard her would be filled with joy. They say The Maker himself was moved by Andraste's song, and then she sang no more of simple things.” The spirit vanished, and another thunk came from the door.

“Ealisay,” Leliana whispered. “Andraste’s closest friend.”

The next spirit had taken the form of an elf, and Daylen narrowed his eyes. “This is supposed to be Shartan, isn’t it?”

Leliana nodded. “Leader of the elven slaves who joined Andraste’s rebellion against the Imperium.”

“Some wonder if he was one elf, or many seeking freedom under the same title,” Wynne added.

The spirit brightened slightly as they approached. “I’d neither a guest nor a trespasser be; in this place I belong, that also belongs to me. Of what do I speak?”

“Home,” Daylen replied after a moment’s thought.

The spirit nodded. “It was my dream for the people to have a home of their own, where we would have no masters but ourselves. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and thus we followed Andraste, against the Imperium. But she was betrayed, and so were we.” It vanished.

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” the next spirit said. “The debt of blood must be paid in full. Of what do I speak?"

“Vengeance,” Daylen answered, recognizing the adage.

"Yes. My husband Hessarian would have chosen a quick death for Andraste. I made him swear that She would die publicly with Her warleaders, that all would know the Imperium's strength. I am justice. I am vengeance. Blood can only be repaid in blood.”

As the spirit vanished, Leliana nodded. “That was Lady Vasilia, Archon Hessarian’s wife.”

Daylen eyed up the next spirit. “Avvar armor. Maferath, you think?”

“Andraste’s mortal husband,” Leliana confirmed. “The Betrayer.”

"A poison of the soul, passion's cruel counterpart; from love she grows, till love lies slain. Of what do I speak?"

“Jealousy,” Daylen said softly.

"Yes, jealousy drove me to betrayal. I was the greatest general of the Alamarri, but beside Her I was nothing. Hundreds fell before Her on bended knee. They loved Her, as did the Maker. I loved her too, but what man can compare with a god?" The spirit seemed almost relieved before it vanished, another lock on the door clunking open.

"The bones of the world stretch towards the sky's embrace. Veiled in white, like a bride greeting her groom. Of what do I speak?"

“The mountains, of course,” Wynne answered. “You are Havard, Maferath’s friend and second.”

"Yes. I carried Andraste's Ashes out of Tevinter into the mountains to the east where She could gaze ever into Her Maker's sky... No more fitting a tomb than this could we find." He vanished.

“They say Havard was the first one healed by the Ashes,” Leliana explained as they moved on. “He was struck down defending Andraste after Maferath’s betrayal and left for dead. He dragged himself to Minrathous and arrived too late to save Andraste, but upon touching the Ashes, his wounds were healed. He gathered the Ashes and carried them back to the lands of the Alamarri.”

Daylen looked around the temple. “Clearly he made it.” He glanced at the next shade, noticing the Tevinter-style robes the man wore. “That must be Archon Hessarian.”

"She wields the broken sword, and separates true kings from tyrants. Of what do I speak?"

“Mercy,” Daylen said. “The mercy you showed Andraste in her final moments.”

"Yes. I could not bear the sight of Andraste 's suffering, and mercy bade me end her life. I am the penitent sinner, who shows compassion as he hopes compassion will be shown to him."

"No man has seen it but all men know it,” the final shade said as they approached. “Lighter than air, sharper than any sword. Comes from nothing but would fell the strongest armies. Of what do I speak?"

“Hunger,” Wynne said. “You speak of hunger.”

"Yes, hunger was the weapon used against the wicked men of the Tevinter Imperium. The Maker kindled the sun's flame, scorching the land. Their crops failed, and their armies could not march. Then He opened the heavens and bade the waters flow, and washed away their filth. I am Cathaire, disciple of Andraste and commander of Her armies. I saw these things done, and knew the Maker smiled on us."

“And what exactly did any of that have to do with faith?” Daylen asked as the exit door opened. “Seemed more like a lot of riddles.” There was another figure standing beyond the door, and Daylen stopped short as the man turned. “Oh, dear.”

“Had fun with the riddle game?” Jowan asked.

Alistair nudged Daylen. “Isn’t this your friend from the Circle?”

“Jowan would never come this way,” Daylen replied. “It looks like him, but that’s not Jowan.”

“He’s right,” Jowan said to Alistair.

“Finally someone speaks plainly,” Daylen muttered.

“But they do speak plainly. Riddles speak to your soul and your gut more often than to your mind. Or they always seemed to for me.” He looked fondly at Daylen. “You have come so far since I saw you last. The last vestiges of your shackled life in the Circle have all but fallen away. You are free of the past, and nothing will hold you back. Be strong, my friend. Do not falter.”

“I won’t,” Daylen whispered.

“I have something for you,” Jowan went on. Daylen felt a sudden weight in his hand, and found a simple amulet clutched in his fist, an archaic symbol of the Chantry on the front and a mirrored silver backing. “Use it well. It makes me happy, knowing you will be the mage that I never could.”

“When I see the real Jowan, I’ll tell him that’s not the case,” Daylen replied as not-Jowan vanished, looking to his companions. “Keep an eye out. There may be more shades about. And if this is any indication, they can impersonate anyone.” The others looked uncomfortable, gripping their weapons tighter.

Daylen’s words proved prophetic when they found copies of themselves in the next room. The alternate group immediately attacked, and Daylen ducked a blast of frost from his doppelganger, dropping a Mana Clash on it that killed it and the Morrigan and Wynne impersonators. Sten parried three crushing blows from his shade before easily sweeping the fake’s sword out of the way and beheading it, and Leliana had put an arrow through the fake Zevran’s skull before it even crossed the room. Shale and the fake Shale were trading teeth-jarring blows that left deep craters in the walls and floors when they missed, as Alistair casually sparred with his opposite until Daylen froze the fake warrior’s feet together, leaving it open for Zevran to stab it in the back as Morrigan and Wynne incinerated the fake Leliana. As the others turned towards the two golems, Shale pinned the fake golem against the wall and smashed it repeatedly in the face until its head crumbled, the body vanishing immediately afterward.

“Everyone all right?” Daylen asked, tugging at the remnants of his robes. A quick check showed no injuries, and the group moved on through the next open doors.

“That’s what, two tests down?” Alistair asked as they entered the next room.

“Yeah, but this one’s going to be a problem,” Daylen replied, looking around the chamber. Several raised floor tiles were visible around the edges of the circular chamber, but a deep pit separated the entrance form the exit.

“Too far to jump,” Zevran commented, pulling a small, smooth stone from a pocket and tossing it into the pit, listening for several seconds. “And the pit is rather deep.”

“You just keep rocks on you to check for things like that?” Daylen asked.

“Or to throw to distract guards, whichever comes first,” Zevran offered.

“There’s an inscription here,” Leliana called, as Wynne lit a ball of magelight at the end of her staff. “Andraste loved Her disciples as She loved the Maker,” she read aloud. “As we have faith in the Maker, so must we have faith in our friends.”

“Willy toiled for many a year,” Daylen mumbled. Alistair sniggered, and the Wardens exchanged quiet grins. “Any volunteers to step on one of those tiles?” Sten wordlessly walked over to the nearest tile and planted a foot on one, a translucent, ethereal block of stone suddenly materializing in midair partway across the pit. “Oh, another puzzle. Alistair, step on that one over there,” Daylen said, indicating another tile. Another bridge segment sprang into being at the edge of the pit closest to the party, and Daylen stepped forward, only for Wynne to yank him back.

“Why not allow someone else to do that?” she asked pointedly. “Someone not vital to the war effort?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have anyone who fits that description,” Daylen replied, tugging his arm free of her grasp. “And I’m not going to ask anyone else to do it. Besides, I have faith in all of you. Everyone, pick a tile, let’s see if we can’t work this puzzle out.”

"Perhaps I could simply throw it across?” Shale suggested. “No need for a bridge, then."

“Tempting, but if the shades could sense who to appear as to mess with me, that might set off something we don’t want to deal with,” Daylen responded, watching as the tiles fluctuated in and out of appearance as the others stepped on or off tiles. He set a foot out on the first one, probing gently and yelping as his foot went straight through it. “All right. Leliana, move to the left. No, your left.” The bridge segment in front of him grew brighter, and he gingerly tested it again. “Good. Sten, try another tile. Morrigan, you stay right where you are, that’s perfect.” He stepped out on the first segment as the second solidified and kept moving, trying to control his breathing. “For what it’s worth, and if there’s anyone listening, I trust you lot completely!”

Alistair nudged Leliana. “So have you heard? Morrigan and him are... you know.”

The bard sighed. “Have you nothing better to do than to spread idle gossip? And besides, he can probably hear us both. You're not being very discreet.” 

Alistair shook his head. “No, look, he's not even paying attention.” Leliana glanced over, and as soon as she looked away Daylen made a rude gesture at Alistair.

“Hmmm. maybe. You don't... think that he's serious about it, do you? The woman is a vile fiend.”

The warrior grinned. “Well, look here, now who's an idle gossip? Me-ow!”

“You're the one who started this, I might remind you. And I'm... well, I'm ending it!”

Alistair snorted. “Besides, _everyone's_ heard. What was it you said to her? She sounds like a hurlock being murdered?”

“Hush!” Leliana snapped. “And I said a genlock, not a hurlock.”

“You two want to stay focused for a minute?” Daylen asked, staring down through the translucent bridge. “My life is on the line here!”

“The third one should be good, Daylen,” Zevran called as he stepped to another tile. The mage nodded, slowly stepping onto the next block. “One more!”

“Shale, if you wouldn’t mind, _that_ tile,” Daylen asked, pointing at one that nobody had touched yet.

“If it insists,” the golem sighed, stepping on the tile. The last segment solidified, and Daylen scampered across to solid ground, whooping as he did.

“So now what?” Alistair called across the pit. “You plan to run the rest of the Gauntlet alone?”

“Hardly.” Daylen was looking around the other side of the pit, a ball of magelight igniting in his hand as he eyed the walls closely. “There’s always a lever or something in the stories, something that shuts down the trap or…” A lever came into view, half-hidden in the shadows, and Daylen tugged it. The lever moved easily, and the bridge snapped from whatever odd energy it had been made of into solid stone. “Opens the door. Come on!”

The next room greeted the party with a wall of fire that reached from floor to ceiling, spanning the length of the room and cutting off the back half of the chamber from the entrance. The only thing in the half of the room that wasn’t on fire was a dusty stone altar, the first thing in the temple that had had any semblance of dust or dirt on it.

Daylen traced some letters carved into the surface of the altar, and blew the dust off the surface before reading aloud. “Cast off the trappings of worldly life and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar, be born anew in the Maker’s sight.” He cleared his throat as he realized what the inscription meant, and Leliana turned pink as she made the connection as well. “Erm…anyone who objects to getting naked, or for religious reasons, feel free to stay back.” He unbuckled his satchel, as well as the belt that was holding the remnants of his robes on, dropping it to the floor. “But I’m going through.

Wynne almost immediately began undoing her robes, a second behind Morrigan. Sten reached for the buckles of his armor as well, and Zevran shrugged, before unlacing his leathers.

“Alistair, Leliana, no shame if you want to back out of this one,” Daylen said sincerely.

“I would _never_ miss out on this,” Leliana replied excitedly, tugging off her leathers.

“And I’m not going to be the only one who doesn’t,” Alistair sighed, tugging off his shirt.

“I’m always naked,” Shale said helpfully. “It should not feel bashful, even if it is such a squishy thing.”

Daylen's eyes bugged out as Sten turned around. "Sweet Maker! No wonder he carries a sword that big, he needs a counterweight!" Zevran sputtered out a laugh, even as Leliana and Wynne pointedly averted their eyes. Alistair was blushing from the ankles up, and Daylen glanced over. "Oi, you don't get to be uncomfortable. I've been pretty much naked for the past hour, it's about time I wasn't the only one."

“This is a profound experience,” Zevran commented. “I never knew it would be so easy to get people out of their clothes. I could do this for a living.”

“All right, everyone, avert your eyes from anyone who might not want you looking,” Daylen ordered. “I’ll go first. If I burst into flames – again – someone put me out and find another way through.” Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, the Warden stepped through the wall of flames.

He emerged on the other side, unscathed. “You have been through the trials of the Gauntlet,” the Guardian said, eliciting a yelp from Daylen as he appeared suddenly and the flames vanished. “You have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrim. Approach the Sacred Ashes in peace.”

“Can my companions and I put our clothes back on?” Daylen asked. “It feels rude to approach naked.”

“We are all naked before the Maker’s gaze,” the Guardian said.

“That’s not a no,” Daylen pointed out.

“Yes, they may,” the Guardian replied after a pause, his face still as stoic as before. But maybe, just maybe, there was a hint of a twinkle in his eye as he vanished.

Tugging the remnants of his clothes back on, Daylen crossed the room, approaching the raised altar that had a large, golden urn under a statue of Andraste. His companions followed closely, the tension in the room thick.

“I stand in awe,” Morrigan admitted. “Really.”

Leliana’s eyes were shining with tears. "I never dreamed I would ever lay my eyes on the Urn of Sacred Ashes... I... I have no words to express--"

"Congratulations,” Sten said flatly. “You've found a _waste-bin_."

“It _is_ a nice vase,” Zevran commented. “I should get one for my house.”

“And just like that, the moment’s over,” Daylen sighed. “You two take all the whimsy out of things, you know that?”

"I... I thought it was a legend,” Wynne confessed. “I didn't believe..." She swallowed hard. "I could not have asked for a greater honor than to be here. I will never forget this feeling."

“Anyone got a pouch handy?” Daylen asked. Zevran unclipped one from his belt, handing it over. “Cheers.” He ascended the steps slowly, reaching out a shaking hand and gently touching the Urn. “Maker, if you’re out there, please don’t hurt me for this, I’m doing it to save a lot of people,” Daylen muttered, glancing upwards for any incoming bolts of divine retribution as he gingerly took the lid off the urn. Inside was ash, so fine that it was almost textureless. Immediately, Daylen turned around, his face twisted.

“What?” Alistair yelped. “What’s wrong?”

In response, Daylen sneezed. “I feel like I’m pushing the line already. Doing that would have just been asking for instant death,” he said.

“What a way to go, though,” Zevran commented. “Can you imagine having ‘sneezed in Andraste’s Ashes’ on your headstone?”

“Get the Grey Wardens thrown out of Ferelden for another two hundred years,” Alistair added.

“Very funny,” Daylen groused, gently and carefully scooping some of the Ashes into the pouch. Closing the pouch tightly, he replaced the lid of the Urn, making sure it was secure.

“We did it,” Leliana whispered. “We actually found the Urn of Sacred Ashes.”

Daylen looked down at the ashes. "I must admit, I'm…conflicted."

"Why?" Alistair asked.

"Well, on the one hand, they're just ashes. They aren't the person anymore. But on the other hand, these are – presumably – the ashes of the founder of the dominant religion for the vast majority of the people in this country. This," he said, hefting the pouch. "This is history. It's crazy." An impish grin spread across his face, and he threw the pouch underhanded to Alistair. "Hey, catch the prophet!"

Leliana gasped, and Alistair fumbled, nearly dropping it. "Maker's breath, Daylen! Was that necessary?"

"It's all right," Alistair reassured her, cradling the pouch close to his chest. "I got it."

"You sure?" Daylen asked. "You're basically fondling the Maker's bride, there."

"Great,” Alistair said dryly. “Now I feel dirty."

"I'm surprised I didn't get struck by lightning again when I took a pinch. Truth be told, I gave it to Alistair because, as you see," He jiggled the belt that was holding what was left of his clothes on, “I don’t really have much to hang it from.”

“I saw a few things back there that would say otherwise,” Wynne commented.

“And she _does_ have a sense of humor!” Daylen crowed. “Let’s get out of here before we do anything else blasphemous.”

—ROTG—

Backtracking through the temple and caverns didn’t take long, now that the party knew where they were going. A brief pause was made for Daylen to kick the dragon’s corpse in the snout, and another to salvage some suitable clothing from a few of the less-mauled corpses. Daylen wound up in a patchwork mess of breeches and ill-fitted leathers, silently grateful that his boots had survived the dragon’s fire.

They found Genitivi muttering to himself, examining some of the carvings in the main hall. Cupcake barked happily as they entered the room, and the scholar looked up. “Welcome back!” he called. “This is amazing. Do you know that Andraste may have-”

“Brother Genitivi,” Daylen said softly. “We found it.”

The scholar froze. “No.” Daylen nodded, opening the pouch to show him the contents. “Oh, there’s some dust on…no, that’s not dust…” His eyes bugged out as the realization hit him, and he lurched backwards. “Oh, Maker, I’m not worthy to look upon…” He pressed a hand to his mouth, his eyes alight. “What was it like? Coming to the Urn, I mean?”

“Grueling,” Daylen said. “Besides the High Dragon we killed up there, and the cultists, there were tests, to prevent the unworthy from reaching the Urn. They could have been deadly.”

“Tests?” Genitivi asked. “Interesting. Very Interesting. Perhaps my research will not seem so much like blasphemy to the Chantry now. We must organize an expedition. There is so much history here, it simply _must_ be studied. And…pilgrims should be allowed to come to the Urn.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Daylen said. “Many would try to exploit this discovery. Or worse, destroy the Urn.”

“But the Urn belongs to all the faithful,” Genitivi protested. “How can you deny this to them?”

“Because people might be hurt trying to reach it,” Daylen replied. “I’m not saying we should keep this a secret forever, just that we should find a way to allow pilgrims to see the Urn safely. There is a guardian spirit there we spoke with. He claims to be one of the first disciples, one of the men who gathered Andraste’s mortal remains and brought them here to protect them. He explicitly said that until the Imperium has ‘crumbled into the sea,’ his task is not done. And frankly, I didn’t want to fight him for the Urn, and he seemed rather certain that it should not leave the temple.” Genitivi looked unconvinced. “Again, I’m not saying we should keep this a secret forever. In fact, we should tell everyone that we’ve found the Urn. But for the moment, considering the political situation, not to mention the Blight? Its exact location may be better off remaining a secret.”

“You ask me to hide this from the Chantry?”

“Goodness no,” Daylen said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Spread the good news, by all means. Just…enough people have died in the search for the Urn. Let us not have more lives lost until we can tell people _how_ to reach it safely.”

“That…does make sense,” Genitivi admitted. “I must return home. I have much to do. If you ever find yourself in Denerim, please visit me. I am not a rich man, but I have a small collection of…interesting artifacts, and I do owe you a reward for coming to my rescue.” He clapped Daylen on the shoulder, before looking down in confusion. “What happened to your clothes?”

“Dragonfire, my friend,” Daylen said. “About as close as I ever hope to come to following Andraste’s example.”

—ROTG—

“We’ll spend the night here,” Daylen declared that evening as they regrouped in Haven’s Chantry. “We’ll salvage what supplies we can, take what valuables we need, and make for Redcliffe.” He glanced over at Genitivi. “Brother, you can latch on to a caravan heading to Denerim, they leave regularly. And I have a feeling you may wish to see Arl Eamon’s recovery.”

As Zevran ladled out bowls of the fish stew the group had made up the night before, Leliana caught Daylen’s eye and jerked her head towards the door. The mage had been on his way to speak with Morrigan, but the two stepped away from the others, Daylen noting the wary glance Morrigan gave them as they did. “Do you remember our discussion?” Leliana asked.

“We’ve talked a lot,” Daylen noted. “Which one?”

“About Marjolaine, and me, and my doubts about my path.” Daylen nodded in understanding, and Leliana went on. “I just wanted to tell you that I thought about what you told me, and…you were right.”

“I always am, but go on,” Daylen said.

Leliana rolled her eyes. “Hush, you. Despite what Marjolaine said, I am not like her. Nor will I be. I know that now. I’ve found peace in knowing the Maker, and nothing will change that. I followed you to make the world a better place and as long as I keep that in mind, I will not fall.” She smiled faintly. “Sometimes it takes another to show us the truths we hide from ourselves.”

“You’re a good person, Leliana, no matter what Marjolaine said.”

“I’m glad I left Lothering in your company,” Leliana went on. “You have proven a true friend and I thank the Maker for you.”

The two rejoined the others, and Daylen was making a beeline for Morrigan when Wynne pulled him aside. “I want to thank you,” she said.

Daylen stared at her for a moment. “I’m guessing this is about Aneirin?”

The enchanter nodded. “You led me to Aneirin. You persisted, even though I was sure all you were going to find was a dead end.”

“A literal one, in this case.” In spite of herself, Wynne smiled warmly. “It always feels good to get resolution,” Daylen said.

“I will never be able to repay you for what you’ve done for me.”

“Saving my life back there put a big mark on your side of the tally sheet,” Daylen replied.

Wynne shrugged. “That may be true, but finding Aneirin allowed me to bring that chapter of my life to a close. I feel free, as if a great weight has been lifted off my heart. This moment…it feels like the moment before the sunrise, when all the world is still, holding its breath and waiting for first light. I can stop thinking about my past, and look forward to the future. Thank you, my friend. You will always have my gratitude.”

“We do what we can, with the time we have,” Daylen replied as the two moved back towards the group. He was mere steps from Morrigan when Alistair stepped into his path.

“I wanted to apologize,” Alistair began.

“What happened back with the Guardian?” Daylen asked. Alistair nodded silently. “Don’t. An apology is worthless if your attitude is the same. I said it then and I’ll say it now. No one person’s life is worth more than anyone else’s. This isn't chess. We’re dealing with real people’s lives, and chess is just a game. Real people aren't pieces. You can't assign more value to some of them than others. Not to me. Not to anyone. People are not a thing you can sacrifice. And that includes _you_. If anyone looks on the world as though it were a game of chess, they deserve to lose. You don’t get to sacrifice yourself.”

“What makes me so important?” Alistair asked. “My blasted heritage again?”

“Of course not,” Daylen snapped. “You’re my best friend! I never got on this well with anybody, you moron!”

“Well that goes double for me, stupid!” The two mock-glared at each other a second longer. “So what are we gonna do?”[6]

“I need to speak with Morrigan, and then you and I can hash out the details for our next move,” Daylen replied. “Get some food. You haven’t eaten in a day and a half.”

“You’ve been watching,” Alistair realized.

“You learn to notice stuff like that at the Circle,” Daylen said softly. “When someone stops eating, that’s when they’re in real trouble. Go.”

“I have watched a lot of humans in my time,” Shale said from behind him, making Daylen jump. “It should be aware that I have decided that it is…not much like any of them.”

“That could be good or bad,” Daylen replied, trying not to twitch.

“Good, of ourse,” Shale scoffed. “It doesn’t _want_ to have anything in common with all those other filthy, substandard human types, does it?”

“Other filthy substandard human types?” Daylen echoed. “Goodness, Shale, you’re going soft on me.”

“Perish the thought,” Shale rasped. “Surely, it must come from some superior lineage, yes? Some breed of flesh creature that has decided to elevate its genetic stock above its natural shortcomings?”

“Backhanded compliments aside,” Daylen said, “I’m a mage, but my family was apparently nobility in Kirkwall, north of here.”

“Oh? Then that must be it. I knew there had to be some reason, it being a human and all.” Shale leaned forward slightly, lowering its voice. “I would appreciate it if it didn’t spread around that I said anything. Humans might start to get the wrong idea. They might start thinking their race is not completely hopeless.”

“And we wouldn’t want that,” Daylen agreed.

“Indeed. Can it imagine the horror?” The golem shook itself. “Now, let us crush something into a fine paste. Just for fun.”

“If you can find any other cultists out there that aren’t small children, have at ‘em,” Daylen said. “And if there are any birds…well, just do what comes natural.”

“You had quite the journey over here,” Morrigan commented as he finally reached her.

“If Zevran or Sten had stopped me, I might just have lost it,” Daylen admitted. He glanced down as Cupcake pawed at his leg, holding a stick. “Oh for the love of-” Seizing the stick, he lobbed it across the Chantry. “Go on, then!” Glancing back at Morrigan, he tugged at the looted clothes as the dog skidded across the stone floors. “As I was saying!” He paused, waiting for an interruption. “Right then. After we head back to Redcliffe and cure Arl Eamon, we’ll be heading southwards.” Morrigan’s face grew grim. “You’re priority. After we settle your business, we’re returning to Ostagar. A few things there we need to take care of.”

“I am…grateful, for this,” Morrigan said quietly.

“Well, I’ve figured out a way for you to repay me,” Daylen replied.

“Oh? And just what task would you have me perform?” the witch asked, dragging out the last word.

—ROTG—

Blood welled from a cut on his neck, and Daylen hissed out a pained breath.

"You must hold still," Morrigan snapped, shifting her grip on the dagger. "This is difficult enough without you moving."

Daylen rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, the wound vanishing in an azure flash, and took a steadying breath, settling down. "Sorry. I used to know this tranquil at the Circle who would cut my hair. The templars used to do it, that was more an exercise in 'how many accidental cuts can we give them.' I appreciate you help with this."

"Shush," Morrigan said, slicing through some burnt ends, trying to trim his hair back into some semblance of proper shape. "Unless you want to lose an ear?" Her next move with the dagger was almost tender, carving away the last of the charred hair, brushing it into a proper shape. "Good. Finished."

"Thank you."

"Thank me by not doing this again," she said bluntly. "I have no desire to play barber. Nor do I enjoy seeing you hurt."

"Oh?" Daylen raised an eyebrow, standing and turning to face her, backing her against the desk in the Chantry's hidden study. "And why is that?"

"Without you I would be left following Alistair. And you have certain...appeals."

Daylen grinned, his hands sliding up her sides. "Shall I remind you of them? Perhaps you've forgotten what they are." The witch smiled against his mouth as their lips met, and Daylen reached out and smacked the switch that shut the door to the study.

—ROTG—

It took almost a week for the party to make their way back to Redcliffe, cutting through deep snow and rough trails as quickly as they could. More than once, the mages had to melt their way through enormous banks of snow deposited by an avalanche with fire magic.

The sun was setting as they re-entered Redcliffe Castle, Daylen glanced at his companions. “Sten, Zevran, get our supplies restocked, check with Murdock and Bodahn. The rest of you, with me.”

“I’m sorry, you can’t be in here,” a servant protested as they entered. “The castle is off-limits to-”

Daylen sighed. “We’re the Grey Wardens that saved this village. We’re here to help Arl Eamon.”

The servant looked closer at him, then glanced over Daylen’s shoulder to look closer at Alistair. “Oh, I see. Terribly sorry. You had a full beard before, that’s why I didn’t recognize you.”

“Don’t remind me,” Daylen grumbled, scratching at the rough growth he’d managed to build up. “Where’s Bann Teagan?” The servant pointed, and the party found Teagan in the main hall, where they had first encountered the possessed Connor.

“You return,” Teagan said hopefully as they entered the room. “Might you have news?”

“Plenty,” Daylen replied. “What’s the Arl’s condition? Have we heard from any more of the knights?”

“My brother’s condition is unchanged, I’m afraid,” Teagan said softly. “We’ve tried more magical healing, but nothing works. As time passes, I become more and more convinced that the Urn might be our only hope. The knights are returning slowly, no doubt due to the war’s progress…and the darkspawn’s.”

Daylen smiled broadly. “ _We found it._ ”

Teagan’s eyes grew so wide Daylen was momentarily worried they’d pop out of his skull. “You have? Wonderful!” He caught a servant’s attention. “Send for Lady Isolde.” The servant scurried out, and Teagan clapped Daylen on the shoulder. “Let us go at once to Eamon’s side and see if the Urn’s healing powers live up to their reputation!”

Within minutes, Isolde, Teagan, a mage healer the Circle had left behind to monitor Eamon’s condition, and most of Daylen’s party were gathered into the bedroom of Redcliffe Castle.

A pinch of the Ashes were scattered across the unconscious man’s body, and everyone waited silently for a long moment.

Nothing happened.

“Come on,” Daylen whispered. “This has to work.”

Nothing. Eamon remained still. Isolde burst into fresh tears.

“If you’re going for a dramatic pause, you have _drastically_ over-done the timing,” Daylen growled.

Light began streaming from Eamon’s body, and Teagan took a half-step back in shock, his mouth opening in shock.

The light ceased, and Eamon groaned. His eyes opened. “Where am I?” He rasped.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, my brother,” Teagan said softly. “Be calm. You have been deathly ill for a very long time.”

Eamon’s eyes focused on his brother. “Teagan? What are you doing here? Where is Isolde?”

Isolde knelt next to the bed. “I am here, my husband.”

The man’s voice grew stronger. “And Connor? Where is my boy?” He looked at Isolde. “Where is our son?”

“He lives, though many others are dead,” Isolde whispered. “There is much to tell you, husband.”

“Dead?” Eamon closed his eyes. “Then it was not a dream?”

“Much has happened since you fell ill, Brother,” Teagan said. “Some of it will not be easy for you to hear.”

The Arl sat up, grimacing as his arms trembled. “Then tell me,” he ordered. “I wish to hear all of it.”

—ROTG—

Arl Eamon looked into the fire in the main hall, his face drawn. “This is most troubling,” he said finally.

“You think it’s bad now, you should have seen it a few weeks back. The place was a mess,” Daylen snarked.

Arl Eamon turned, looking at Daylen. “There is much to be done, that is true. But I should first be thankful to those who have done so much. Grey Warden, you have not only saved my life, but kept my family safe as well.”

“I did what I had to do,” Daylen replied.

“I am in your debt,” Eamon went on. “Will you permit me to offer you a reward for your service?”

“If you’d like, I won’t object,” Daylen said. “But our first priority is getting your assistance against the Blight.”

“You have it,” Eamon declared. “But allow me to declare you and those traveling with you Champions of Redcliffe. You will always be a welcome guest within these halls.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Daylen replied diplomatically. “That is most gracious.”

“We should speak of Loghain, brother,” Teagan interjected. “There is no telling what he will do once he learns of your recovery.”

“Loghain instigates a civil war even though the darkspawn are on our very doorstep,” Eamon responded. “Long I have known him. He is a sensible man, one who never desired power. Whatever happened to him, Loghain must be stopped. What’s more, we can scarce afford to fight this war to our bitter end.”

“Who says he needs to find out you’ve recovered?” Daylen asked. “The less Loghain knows, the better.”

“Bann Teagan can act with my authority as my brother, but only so far,” Eamon answered. “He may be seen as an usurper himself if he attempts to do too much.”

“Oh,” Daylen replied, chastised. “My apologies. What are you proposing, then?”

Arl Eamon began pacing. “We have no time to wage a campaign against him. Someone must surrender if Ferelden is to have any chance at fighting the darkspawn. And Loghain must pay for his heinous crimes. But our armies must be reserved for the darkspawn, not for each other. I will spread word of Loghain’s treachery, both here and against the king. But it will be a claim made without proof.” His face darkened. “Due in no small part to the escape of the mage who poisoned me.” Daylen kept his face carefully blank, and Eamon continued. “Those claims will give Loghain’s allies pause, but we must combine it with a challenge Loghain cannot ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than Loghain’s daughter, the queen.”

Daylen and Alistair exchanged a worried look as Teagan turned his brother in surprise. “Are you referring to Alistair? Are you certain?”

Eamon sighed. “I would not propose such a thing if we had an alternative. But the unthinkable has occurred.”

“You intend to put Alistair forward as king?” Daylen asked. “But he’s unacknowledged. If Maric had recognized him as his child, it wouldn’t be a problem. He hardly would have been the first king to have a bastard child. As it stands, there’s no way to prove Alistair is his son.”

“Teagan and I have a claim through marriage, but we would seem opportunists, no better than Loghain,” Eamon replied. “Alistair’s claim is by blood, and Loghain knows it.”

“And what about me?” Alistair demanded. “Does anyone care what _I_ want?”

“I do,” Daylen said softly.

“You have a responsibility, Alistair,” Arl Eamon cut in. “Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?”

Daylen glared at him, spotting the obvious manipulation. Alistair picked up on it as well, his face twisting. “I…but…” He sighed, gritting his teeth. “No, my lord.”

“I see only one way to proceed,” Eamon declared. “I will call for a Landsmeet, a gathering of all of Ferelden’s nobility in the city of Denerim. There, Ferelden can decide who shall rule, one way or another. Then the business of fighting our true foe can begin.” He looked to Daylen. “What say you to that, my friend? I do not wish to proceed without your blessing.”

“I trust your judgment on this,” Daylen replied. “But a question. Loghain so far has shown a spectacular lack of subtlety when it comes to dealing with threats. What’s stopping him from simply attacking Redcliffe and eliminating you, Teagan, Isolde, everyone who could stand in his way?”

“Such a move would be too obvious even for him,” Eamon replied. “That’s why he had me poisoned – he wished me gone without having to confront me directly. If I call for a Landsmeet, refusing the compromise and attacking Redcliffe will only support our accusations. Doing so would turn the rest of Ferelden against him. And we have the stronghold of Redcliffe, even if he does.”

“Then it seems we have little choice on how to proceed,” Daylen admitted.

“Very well,” Eamon said. “I will send out the word. It will take some time to recall my forces and organize our allies. I would prefer to wait until that is done before calling the Landsmeet. In the meantime, I suggest you pursue the remainder of the Grey Warden treaties. We will need all the allies we can get if we are to defeat the darkspawn horde.”

“Yes, that was our plan,” Daylen replied archly. “Good to know that great minds think alike.”

“But fools rarely differ,” Arl Eamon replied. Daylen grinned. “You and your companions are my guests, Warden. We have much to do.”

“Yes, we do,” Daylen agreed. “But first, you and I need to have a talk in private.”

—ROTG—

 _Dragon Cults_  
_On the worship of dragons_  
_Let us suggest, for the moment, that a high dragon is simply an animal. A cunning animal, to be sure, but in possession of no true self-awareness or sentience. There has not, after all, been a single recorded case of a dragon attempting to communicate or performing any act that could not likewise be attributed to a clever beast._

_How, then, does one explain the existence of so-called "dragon cults" throughout history?_

_One dragon cult might be explainable, especially in light of the reverence of the Old Gods in the ancient Tevinter Imperium. In the wake of the first Blight, many desperate imperial citizens turned to the worship of real dragons to replace the Old Gods who had failed them. A dragon, after all, was a god-figure that they could see: It was there, as real as the archdemon itself, and, as evidence makes clear, did offer a degree of protection to its cultists._

_Other dragon cults could be explained in light of the first. Some cult members might have survived and spread the word. The worship of the Old Gods was as widespread as the Imperium itself--certainly such secrets could have made their way into many hands. But there have been reports of dragon cults even in places where the Imperium never touched, among folks who had never heard of the Old Gods or had any reason to. How does one explain them?_

_Members of a dragon cult live in the same lair as a high dragon, nurturing and protecting its defenseless young. In exchange, the high dragon seem to permit those cultists to kill a small number of those young in order to feast on draconic blood. That blood is said to have a number of strange long-term effects, including bestowing greater strength and endurance, as well as an increased desire to kill. It may breed insanity as well. Nevarran dragon-hunters have said these cultists are incredibly powerful opponents. The changes in the cultists are a form of blood magic, surely, but how did the symbiotic relationship between the cult and the high dragon form in the first place? How did the cultists know to drink the dragon's blood? How did the high dragon convince them to care for its young, or know that they would?_

_Is there more to draconic intelligence than we have heretofore guessed at? No member of a dragon cult has ever been taken alive, and what accounts exist from the days of the Nevarran hunters record only mad rants and impossible tales of godhood. With dragons only recently reappearing and still incredibly rare, we may never know the truth, but the question remains._

_\--From Flame and Scale, by Brother Florian, Chantry scholar, 9:28 Dragon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Pacific Rim. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Evolution. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3The Punisher (2004). [ return to text ]
> 
> 4The Punisher (2004). [ return to text ]
> 
> 5Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. [ return to text ]
> 
> 6MASH. [ return to text ]


	19. Take A Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daylen and Arl Eamon have a talk, the group catches a breath, and this story breaks two hundred thousand words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_Culture of Ferelden  
The Fereldans are a puzzle. As a people, they are one bad day away from reverting to barbarism. They repelled invasions from Tevinter during the height of the Imperium with nothing but dogs and their own obstinate disposition. They are the coarse, willful, dirty, disorganized people who somehow gave rise to our prophet, ushered in an era of enlightenment, and toppled the greatest empire in history._

_There are few things you can assume safely in dealing with these people: First, they value loyalty above all things, beyond wealth, beyond power, beyond reason. Second, although they have nothing in their entire country which you are likely to think at all remarkable, they are extremely proud of their accomplishments. Third, if you insult their dogs, they are likely to declare war. And finally, the surest sign that you have underestimated the Fereldans is that you think you have come to understand them._

_\--Empress Celene I of Orlais, in a letter to her newly appointed ambassador to Denerim_

—ROTG—

It was amazing how palpable awkward tension could be under the right circumstances. Arl Eamon and Daylen had retreated to Eamon’s study, and had spent the last several minutes staring at one another.

“So, mage,” Eamon said finally. “Need I fear your magic?”

“Only if you call me ‘mage’ instead of ‘Daylen’ or ‘Warden,’” Daylen snapped. “Maybe show a little appreciation for the man who saved your village, saved your wife, saved your son’s soul, and saved your life.”

“And freed the mage who caused all this,” Eamon shot back.

Daylen winced. “You know about that.” Eamon nodded. “Well yes, I did release Jowan, but he’s been conscripted into the Wardens. And truth be told, if you want the one who caused all this, you should get Loghain and your wife in here. It was Loghain who recommended the apostate that poisoned you to your wife, but it was Isolde who went looking, Isolde who hid Connor’s magic from you and from anyone who could properly train him rather than risk the embarrassment of birthing a mage, and Isolde who refused and still refuses to take responsibility for the deaths of half of Redcliffe. Frankly, I’d have just as soon have chucked her off the cliff and left the lot of you to rot, but Alistair insisted. If you’re going to claim that letting Jowan go cancels out my saving the life of an Arl, his wife, a Bann, and an entire village, not to mention destroying a demon who had possessed the Arl’s son _without_ killing the child, I’m going to have to ask you to put pants on, because you would be talking out of your arse.”

“You released a blood mage into the world!”

“A blood mage who can barely cast a proper spell, even with blood powering his magic,” Daylen scoffed. “I knew Jowan. He was better off with nothing but lyrium bolstering his magic, and that’s not saying much. He’s a scholar, not a war-mage. He only turned to blood magic to keep up...” Daylen bit his lip, glancing downward and momentarily feeling the young man he very much was, thrust into a situation he had little control over and even less training for.

“And what are you?” Eamon challenged.

“I’m no blood mage, if that’s what you’re asking,” Daylen said. “Blood magic is not something I am or ever hope to be. Magic is something that requires precise control, skill, and determination to use properly. With blood magic you just open a vein and hope that you run out of enemies before you run out of blood.” Daylen grew somber. “And the first proper magic I ever learned, and the second spell I ever used in my life, is healing magic. Yes, I’m a very capable war-mage, but I don’t kill when I think I can avoid it.”

“You shed buckets of blood getting here, I’m told,” Eamon said dryly.

“Yes, yes, I have a body-count that rivals a natural disaster, but at no point have I ever used blood in my magic.”

“Because it’s not you,” Eamon snorted.

“And because then I’d be no better than the maleficars or the Chantry.”

“The Chantry doesn’t use blood magic! That’s obscene!”

Daylen paused. “It’s amazing how little people outside the Circle or the Chantry know about mages. How do you think Templars track escaped mages?” At the Arl’s confused look, he went on. “Mages escape from the Circle all the time. They’re tracked down and usually killed, but once in a while they get brought back alive. The Templars that track mages down do so through the use of a phylactery. When a mage is brought to the Circle, they take blood from them.” Daylen pulled up the sleeve of his robe, revealing a scar on the crook of his elbow. “That vial of blood is preserved, and they can use it to track you if you escape.”

“And this happens to every mage?” Arl Eamon asked.

Daylen nodded grimly. “Every Circle mage has a scar like this. Every single one. Some try to heal it, and fail. Magic won’t heal scars like that, not with the enchanted blades they use to draw the blood. I was  _six years old_ when I had mine made. And the phylactery is still out there. After my Harrowing, it was sent to a repository in Denerim.” Daylen carefully neglected to mention that Alistair currently had it. “For all I know, after the Blight the Templars could get sent to track me down and drag me back to the Circle. Who’s going to stop them? City guards defer to the Chantry’s authority, the Grey Wardens are nearly extinct in Ferelden, and as strong a mage as I am, I can’t defeat an entire team of Templars.” His voice had become low, and Daylen shook his head again. “If you think that the Chantry has any qualms about using blood magic when it suits them, think again. They excuse that as ‘necessary’ or ‘for a good cause’ just like they excuse the slavery issue.”

Eamon held up a hand. “All right, you’re losing me. What slavery?”

“I’m referring to the Tranquil, mages that have had their magic removed. They're branded with lyrium, severing their connection to the Fade, and with it, their magic. Unfortunately, their emotions and a large part of their personality go with it. They’re…empty, inside. The idea is that once they're made Tranquil, their magic is no longer a danger to themselves or others, as the connection to the Fade is what makes them susceptible to demons in the first place. Unfortunately, we saw at Kinloch Hold that a demon can still be summoned _into_ a Tranquil. Effectively, the Rite of Tranquility is performed as a disciplinary tool on troublesome apprentices. Once you're Harrowed, you can't have the Rite forced on you, but that doesn't stop them from simply killing you and claiming you were practicing blood magic. Even the threat of Tranquility is enough to keep most in line – they regard it as a fate worse than death. Tranquil don't possess the desire or much of the capability to object, to question, or to form anything other than a logical opinion. It's a nightmarish existence. The point is – they are unpaid, prisoners as much as the mages are. Their labor feeds, clothes, and pays for the Circle. Their work fills the Chantry's coffers and they receive nothing for their work. Is that not slavery?”

Eamon sat back in his chair, deeply shaken. “And this is common?”

“At _every_ Circle,” Daylen growled. “Every one. The same as leashing Templars with lyrium addiction.”

“Lyrium addiction?” Eamon echoed. He looked pained at this point, and Daylen gave him a grim smile.

“Oh yes. Templars are given lyrium rations. They claim the lyrium is needed to fuel their powers, but I know for a fact that Alistair has never used it, and a few weeks ago I saw him Smite an abomination so hard the thing dropped dead where it stood. The lyrium is a method of control, just like the phylacteries. It limits the Templar Order’s power and independence. And the addiction is progressive. Degenerative.”

“How so?”

“The older Templars wind up with obsessions, dementia, paranoia, hallucinations, memory loss – all wonderful things for someone in a position of power like that to have. You see the dozier ones giving orders to people who aren’t there.” Daylen leaned back in the chair, looking down at his boots. “I have no illusions that I’ll convert you into a proponent of mage rights. But the brutal truth here is that your son is a mage, and I know for a fact that he’d benefit a great deal from knowing that his father understood his problems and still loved him.”

Daylen finally met Eamon’s gaze. “You’re speaking from experience?” the older man asked gently.

Daylen took a slow breath, his voice quavering as he responded. “My own father tied me to a post and left me there for two days until the Templars arrived. My own father called me an abomination in the Maker’s eyes. My own father looked like he wanted to set me on fire after I saved his life.”

“How did you find out?” Eamon asked.

“That I was a mage?” Daylen said. Eamon nodded. “Honestly, it was more by accident than anything else. I was born in Kirkwall, in the Free Marches. My mother was a Free Marcher, one of the Amells in Kirkwall. They were a noble family, I'm told. I can barely remember it.” Daylen took a gulp of brandy. “Regardless, she met and fell in love with some other noble, some pissant Orlesian of Rivaini descent. Apparently, there was an apostate living next door to us, and one day he was possessed by a Pride demon.” Eamon blanched. “He went on a rampage, and the house collapsed on us. My father was badly injured, my mother was stuck outside.” Daylen scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It was so dark, and I just wanted to see whether my father was alive or not.” Daylen looked up, closing his eyes for a moment, and a small wisp of magic flared into being over his head. “I conjured a spell wisp. My first spell, and not bad considering it normally takes an apprentice a fair bit of time to learn that.”

“You said your second spell was a healing spell,” Eamon said, standing up and pouring a two snifters of brandy. “Your father?”

“He was badly injured,” Daylen replied, accepting the drink. “His arm was gashed open to the bone, his wrist was broken, he was bleeding out. I healed him.” Daylen gave a humorless smile. “He thanked me by calling me a monster. They dug us out of the house, my father tied me to a post, they called the Templars, and within two days, I was an apprentice at the Gallows in Kirkwall. Considering that from what I’ve heard, it’s the Amell line, not the Arvale line that’s got a reputation for producing mages, maybe it was my mother he should have had words with.” Daylen shook his head. “I don’t think anyone needed to tell me that demons were bad after that. I’d already seen how bad humans could be, I could imagine how much worse demons were. I'm pretty sure it just about killed my mother, though.”

“She still loved you?” Eamon asked.

“I don't know,” Daylen admitted. “I never saw her after that. I don't think my father ever told her what had happened to me.”

Eamon downed his drink and poured himself another. “Do they have any other children?”

Daylen looked down at his brandy and cleared his throat. “I was the oldest of five,” he replied, his voice just above a whisper.

“And the other children?” Eamon asked hesitantly.

“Markham, Ansburg, Kirkwall, and Ostwick,” Daylen rattled off, not looking up. “After Solona – my little sister, the second oldest – displayed magical talent, they took her to the Kirkwall Circle and I was sent to Ferelden.”

“Why send you somewhere else?” Eamon asked.

“They don't like having family members in the same Circle,” Daylen spat, looking up. “It reminds us that we're people and have families outside the Circle, someone who cares about us and might help us if we escape.”

“Is the Circle system that bad?” Eamon whispered in horror.

Daylen nodded. “You must understand that the most idealized concept of the Circle, I have no problem with,” Daylen said. “Find mages, bring them in, let them learn from each other, teach them to control and use their powers responsibly, and protect them from the idiots outside who would just as soon burn us alive. There's a lot of young mages who were accused of responsibility for a bad harvest or a stillborn child.” He shook his head. “But the Circle we have today? That's not what exists. I've met maybe three Templars who didn't see me as a constant threat, a source of infection to be cut out and burned.”

“So how would you change it?” Eamon said.

“Shake things up,” Daylen replied. “Give the mages equal power over their own fates, have a little accountability with the accusations of blood magic rather than accusation followed by a summary execution, change the environment of the Circle. The Circles don't feel like a haven or a center of learning. They feel like a cage, with every Templar watching literally every minute, waiting for a mage to go bad so they can put you to the sword. It doesn't help that it seems like every Circle out there is housed in a place where the Veil has been damaged, so that demons are closer to us. You're going to house a bunch of people who are more vulnerable to possession by demons than the average person in a place where it's easier for the demons to get at them? And you're telling me that they _aren't_  trying to get us to go bad?” Daylen huffed. “Them looming over us and watching every second of every day only makes matters worse. You can't tell me that constantly being reminded that you're a danger to yourself and everyone around you and that if you put so much as a toe out of line, you'll be made Tranquil or killed outright, is going to help your state of mind any. The way the Templars behave around the mages doesn't endear a whole lot of love for the Chantry.”

“You’re saying Templars aren’t necessary?” Eamon asked incredulously.

“I'm not saying that,” Daylen shot back. “There are spells that mages can learn that can render another mage unable to cast a spell, or turn their own mana against them and kill them outright. But some of them are hard to learn, imprecise, and require the mage to be quicker than the target. A Templar can knock a mage cold with a Holy Smite, leaving them alive and nobody dead as collateral damage.” He sighed. “But by nature of their position of authority over us and the lack of accountability or independent oversight, there's a horrific amount of abuse of power going on.” At Eamon’s questioning look, he took a sip of the brandy before going on. “Say a mage is suspected of dabbling in blood magic or demon-summoning. If they're not simply immediately killed without further investigation, they're sent to the Aeonar, a prison which makes just about any other prison or dungeon in Thedas look like a palace. Suspected maleficars are thrown into solitary confinement until a demon possesses them, at which point their Templar jailors have all the justification they need to kill them. Sometimes these mages are no more than children.”

“I'm sure that-”

“If a mage is suspected of being too vulnerable to demons to live their life without being a threat,” Daylen went on, “rather than being put through a Harrowing, which mind you is  _supposed to test us for this exact thing_ , they're made Tranquil. Imagine talking to someone you had been close friends with for years, who no longer understands why you were important to them or why you're worried you'll be next. Or, if a Templar takes a liking to a pretty young mage who is unwise enough to spurn his advances. He rapes her, threatens her with being accused of using blood magic if she tells anyone, and then has her killed anyway to cover up once he gets bored with her.”

“Yes, but…”

Daylen cut him off. “These are all things I saw _within my first month_ at the Gallows,” he said. “And believe me, they weren't uncommon. If anything, Kinloch Hold was rather pleasant compared to other Circles. They at least looked for proof that Jowan was using blood magic before they decided to make him Tranquil. And the worst part? For all the abuses of power I saw at the Circle, all the horrific things that the Templars did that went unaddressed, more mages die by their own hand than by anything else.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Arl Eamon asked after a long pause.

“Because Connor is going into that system,” Daylen replied. “And there’s nothing you can do to change that. But you can make sure that he knows he’s not alone. That you still love him. His mother tried to hide his talent. That alone put some distance between them. But if you stay in contact? Make sure he knows he’s got someone who believes he’s still good?” Daylen shrugged. “Then the boy has a better chance than most Circle mages. His other option is to run for the rest of his life, go apostate and hide out in some small out-of-the-way village and live the rest of his life in fear that a Templar’s going to come kill him someday.” Daylen downed the rest of the brandy, setting the glass on the desk. “Can we change the subject?”

“Certainly. Do you believe Alistair should take the throne?”

“Right to the hard-hitting questions, eh?” Daylen asked. “I don’t think there’s really another option. I would love to give the man a way out, but there doesn’t seem to be one.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, no I didn’t,” Daylen said with a cheeky smile. “All right, I think he should absolutely take it. But it’s not me that’s going to get stuck on that throne.”

“Why do you want to make Alistair king? You hardly seem a staunch royalist, but you also seem to respect his wishes, and he doesn't care to come anywhere near the throne.”

“That's pretty much exactly why I think he'd be a great king,” Daylen explained. “Alistair's a decent, honest, mostly sensible man unless there's unattended cheese in the room. He doesn't have an ambitious bone in his body, doesn't like to be the center of attention, and would prefer to relax and attend to smaller matters rather than make a scene and shake up the state of things. But I know Alistair, and the man never met a job he didn't do his absolute best at. If he's made king, he will do everything possible and more to make sure that Ferelden is as safe a place as possible, and he'll do it without ruffling feathers if he can avoid it. He'd never throw a punch if he hadn't extended a hand in friendship first, and while some might think that naive, I believe that after ages of warmongers, dictators, and despots, we could use a man like Alistair on the throne.” Daylen sighed. “I know it's the last thing he wants, but I also know that he's the best man for the job. He's the only real option, anyway.”

“Well, there's Anora,” Eamon pointed out. “I'm not arguing with you, just want to know your reasons for favoring him over her.”

“I'll admit, part of my aversion to her is her being an unknown factor, and her connection to Loghain,” Daylen said, “but if she had anything to do with running matters of state, I think it'd be best if she was removed. If there's a weed in your garden, you pull it out to the roots. Loghain’s the weed. She’s just the roots supporting him.”

“Do you hate Loghain?”

“I don’t have time for hate,” Daylen said. “I think he’s an idiot, and I have plenty of contempt for him, but hate? No.”

“Let me rephrase, then. What do you think of him?”

Daylen looked at him curiously. “Why ask me? You know the man better than I do.”

“Yes, but you’ve interacted with him more recently,” Arl Eamon replied. “People change.”

Daylen shrugged, considering the question. “I think that he’s a man convinced of two things. One, that he knows exactly what he’s doing. Two, that what he’s doing is right. There’s nothing more dangerous than someone convinced that they’re doing the right thing. He believes utterly that the Blight is not the true threat, nor that the Wardens are vital, but that Orlais is the biggest threat to Ferelden. I have no doubt Orlais wants to get Ferelden under its control again, but we have bigger problems.”

“Are the Wardens truly vital?” Eamon asked. “Can we defeat the Blight without them?”

Daylen stared at him a moment. “You realize that I am rather biased on that, right?” He shook his head. “No. Wardens are necessary to kill the Archdemon. It is why the First Blight was so devastating. Wardens didn’t exist yet. Unfortunately, neither Alistair nor I know exactly _why_. Duncan, the commander of the Wardens in Ferelden, died before he could tell us. He was at Ostagar. I could make a few guesses, but we’re just not sure. What Loghain doesn’t know is that this really is a true Blight, and you can’t outmaneuver a darkspawn horde like you would any other army. Loghain either doesn’t know or refuses to acknowledge this. He may excel at tactics and strategy, and from what I understand, he basically won the war against the Orlesians by himself, but he’s not fighting chevaliers here, he’s fighting darkspawn. They don’t have supply lines you can cut, they don’t have a stronghold or a capital you can take, their very blood is a weapon, they have a single commander who is extraordinarily hard to kill, their numbers are massive, and they have no regard for their own losses. I've seen single genlocks or hurlocks throw themselves against ten times their number with no concern for their own lives. Stories mention armies fighting to the last man, but the darkspawn _really do_. The only time they've ever been known to retreat is when an Archdemon is killed.”

“Warden, you have a better estimate of the situation than I do,” Eamon said quietly. “What do you think our chances are?”

“Well, we've got Dalish scouts, the Circle of Magi – well, what's left of it – and now your knights on our side. We're going to head farther south, get a better idea of how the horde has advanced. Then we're going to head north, to Orzammar. The dwarves have more experience fighting darkspawn than anyone else, Grey Wardens included. They're going to make up a strong defensive base to the army.” Daylen's face soured. “But I won't lie to you, the situation is grim. Our resources are stretched thin and the Dalish's involvement is reliant on their being able to get here from the Brecelian Forest unmolested. And even then...we're not nearly numerous enough to stand up to the strength of any real darkspawn horde. We need the rest of the Fereldan army, and for that, we need to end this idiotic civil war and focus on the real threat – the Blight.”

“Then this is a real Blight, then.”

Daylen grimaced, and then nodded. “Alistair would be upset if he knew I told you this, but I feel you need to know to understand why Grey Wardens know when it really is a Blight. We have a connection to the darkspawn. We can sense them, they can sense us, it's why we can fight and kill them by the hundreds without fear of getting the Blight sickness. And when an Archdemon awakens...we can sense that, too. Every Warden in Thedas knows that this is a Blight, and what confuses me is _none of them have shown up_. Meanwhile, Loghain is hanging his abandoning Cailan on our shoulders.”

“Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you,” Eamon said. “Warden, if you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been in the order?”

Daylen marshaled his face into something resembling a smile. “I was officially inducted a few hours before the Battle of Ostagar.”

Eamon’s jaw dropped. “So you, and Alistair…”

“We have about two years’ worth of experience as Wardens between us, yes,” Daylen said. “We’re doing our best. We were the two most junior Wardens. And we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Eamon gave a pathetic squeak. “You two were just…what, set loose?”

Daylen winced. “We were rescued from Ostagar by…well, let’s call it a concerned third party. Unless they’ve done an astounding job of hiding, the other Fereldan Wardens are all dead.”

“Anything that I can do to assist?”

“Marshal your allies in the Bannorn,” Daylen replied. “We need every man we can find, ready to fight the Blight. There’s another thing, as well. The village we found the Urn of Sacred Ashes in, Haven? There’s a dead dragon and several dead drakes up there. We killed it. It’s probably frozen from the cold, but there may be salvageable materials there. And we could use every advantage we can get. Some dragonbone armor would really help.”

“I’m familiar with a particularly skilled blacksmith in Denerim,” Arl Eamon mused. “I’m sure we could work something out. How long before you leave?”

Daylen yawned, the stress of the day catching up to him. “We’ll probably leave early tomorrow. Why?”

Arl Eamon shrugged. “Not to distract you from your task, but it is the end of Harvestmere. Tomorrow is Satinalia.”

Daylen leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps a day of rest is in order. I do have quite a few gifts I have been meaning to give my companions.”

—ROTG—

“This is foolish,” Sten grumbled as the Warden and his companions sat down for the Satinalia feast the next evening. “We have a task. Why are we not attempting to complete it?”

“Because there’s good food available,” Daylen said, his eyes nearly crossing in delight as he ripped into a turkey leg with all the grace of a man falling down the stairs.

“That remains to be seen,” the Qunari replied. Zevran nudged a plate of sweet potatoes over in front of him, and the warrior looked at them disdainfully, before tentatively sampling them. After a pause, he shrugged, ostensibly deeming them acceptable.

“I’m just glad we were able to get you out of that armor,” Leliana commented, sipping at a glass of wine. “After all that time in the rain and snow, I was afraid you might have rusted shut.” Alistair coughed out a laugh around a mouthful of potato, his fist against his mouth. Leliana winked at him, and Morrigan rolled her eyes, studiously ignoring them as she ate.

A servant entered the room, bending down and whispering into Arl Eamon’s ear. “Ah, excellent,” the Arl said. “Warden?” Both Alistair and Daylen looked over. “Not you, Alistair, the other one.”

“That’s nice,” Daylen commented, putting on an indignant air. “You’re Alistair and I’m ‘the other one.’” Alistair sniggered, and Eamon rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, I was raised to be impertinent. Something on your mind?”

“The package you requested has arrived from the Circle,” Eamon replied.

“Excellent,” Daylen said, wiping his mouth and rising from the table. “If you will excuse me for just a moment?” Following the servant, he found the package waiting in a side room off the main hall. It took only a moment to rip open the packaging, examining the contents. “Perfect.” He set out the three sets of robes and a pair of new gauntlets, quickly counting the staves inside to make sure all four were there. “Never hurts to have spares, you know.”

“Of course, ser,” the servant replied dutifully.

“Don’t call me that,” Daylen said. “I’m nobody’s lord. To you, and the rest of the staff, I’m either Daylen, or if you insist on the formality, Warden. And if there’s anyone who’s hurt, or sick, just let me know.” The servant nodded brightly, and Daylen clapped him on the shoulder. “Could you do me a favor and have these taken to my room? I need to rejoin my companions.”

“Finally got your equipment replaced?” Alistair asked as Daylen sat back down.

“With spares. Next time I get set on fire, I won’t have to loot bodies for clothes.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “So you’re sure there will be a next time, then?”

“The Archdemon’s a bleeding great dragon,” Daylen replied gravely. “With my luck, I’m betting I’ll get set on fire when we fight it. If we live that long.”

There was a long pause as that sank in. “You really know how to kill a mood,” Alistair commented.

“Shall we move on to the gifts exchange?” Arl Eamon suggested, trying to get the evening back on track.

Daylen seized on the opportunity. “Excellent idea!” Arl Eamon signaled a few servants, and a few moments later there was a box in front of every one of Daylen’s companions, as well as one in front of Connor. “All right, everyone, I hope you enjoy your gifts,” Daylen said, scooting down the table towards Arl Eamon. “I’ll be over here watching with a large amount of alcohol.”

Alistair opened the box and burst out laughing, pulling out a hand puppet. “Oh, my goodness, this is adorable!”

Leliana paused through unwrapping her present, grinning at the design. “Is that a Grey Warden?”

“Definitely,” Alistair cackled, waggling the puppet’s arms. “It’s even got a little tin helmet and sword and shield! This is great!” He glanced inside the box, his eyes widening slightly. “Ooh.” He reached inside carefully, setting several small rune stones and statuettes on the table. “These are _nice_.”

“I’ve been setting them aside from the loot,” Daylen replied, looking over Connor’s shoulder as the boy unwrapped a scroll with Circle markings, his eyes narrowing. “This is the basics of what you’re going to be dealing with at the Circle. It’s written for mages who are taking on apprentices, but every mage who’s seen it has said that it’d be best if apprentices got to see what lay ahead of them. I figured you could use the information.”

“Thank you, Warden,” Connor said quietly.

Leliana gasped as she finished unwrapping her gift, a fat-bodied lute that she immediately set to tuning. “What a wonderful gift! Thank you _so_ much, Daylen!”

“What else is in there?” Alistair asked, goofing around with his hand puppet.

“A few symbols of Andraste, very nice,” Leliana commented, digging around in the box, before gasping, “ _shoes!”_

“You are not the only one,” Zevran added, pulling out a pair of boots and setting them next to a bottle of Antivan brandy. His eyes widened, and he inhaled deeply. “Antivan leather! I would know that anywhere!” He chuckled. “I don’t know how you found it, but thank you!”

“Try them on!” Leliana said encouragingly.

“But I’m not finished admiring them yet,” Zevran protested, running a hand over the soft leather. “Can you smell that? Like rotting flesh. Just like back in Antiva City.” Leliana giggled. “Now if you could only find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder, and a corrupt politician, I’d really feel like I was home!”

“Just wait until we get to Denerim,” Daylen said as Zevran donned the footwear. “We’ll get you what you need.”

The assassin grinned from ear to ear. “And they fit, as well! Marvelous!”

“There’s something else in there,” Daylen warned Leliana. The bard fished around inside the box, retrieving a bundle of flowers.

“Flowers?” Leliana asked. “Uh, thank you. Aren’t you and Morrigan…”

“There’s no romantic intention here,” Daylen said quickly.

“They’re…very pretty,” Leliana replied, clearly confused.

“Smell them,” Daylen urged.

Leliana’s brows furrowed, before she held the flowers to her nose for a moment. Her eyes widened. “These were…these were her favorite. I haven’t seen these in such a long time! They smell just like Mother used to.” The rogue ducked her head, hiding her face from Daylen’s view. “Thank you. Thank you so much for remembering.”

Sten was looking at his gift pensively. “This is a fine gift. Thank you.”

“What is that?” Wynne asked, setting aside an amulet and a collection of fine books Daylen had undoubtedly looted from dragon cultists, the Circle’s libraries, and people who had been unwise enough to attack the party to take a drink of wine.

“The Qunari Prayers for the Dead,” Sten said softly. “A useful thing to have in dark times.” He looked up at Daylen. “And a very rare thing in these lands.”

“I figured after finding you your sword, this was the best I could give you,” Daylen replied.

The warrior looked at the Warden for a long moment. “I thank you, _kadan_.” He glanced back in the box, his eyes widening momentarily.

“Oh, and I asked a favor of the kitchen staff and had them make you some cookies,” Daylen added casually.

“He really is a softie,” Leliana stage-whispered to Zevran.

“I am _not_ ,” Sten said crossly around a mouthful of oatmeal and raisin.

Wynne perked up. “Oh, before I forget. Daylen found me some good wool yarn, and after you mentioned being cold…” she handed the Qunari a large, squashy package. “For you.”

The giant unwrapped it, a hefty sweater in a rich burgundy unfolding as he shook out the garment. “I…this is most impractical.”

“No it’s not!” Wynne countered. “I made it so you could wear it under your armor.”

Sten paused. “I…shall see if it fits.”

“Sooooftiieee,” Leliana teased from farther down the table.

“And you, Morrigan?” Zevran asked. “What did our lovely Warden get you?”

“He has already given me _plenty_ ,” the witch sniffed.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Alistair muttered.

“But the fool insisted, so I received several pieces of jewelry.”

“And Shale?” Leliana asked. “What of our largest companion?”

“Besides several new power crystals, it gifted me a friend,” Shale replied, holding up a rock.

Leliana looked baffled. “He gave you a rock?”

“A _pet_ rock,” Daylen explained. “Have you settled on a name?”

“Wilson,” Shale said, turning the rock so Leliana could see the eyes and goofy smile painted on the rock. “And she shall be a great comfort to me while I fight alongside all of you squishy things.”

Eventually, the party began to wind down, as the good food and good wine began to take their toll. Wynne, Leliana, and Sten hauled a half-dozing but protesting Alistair up the stairs, and Zevran made an exit not long after.

“I have something for you,” Morrigan remarked to Daylen as they gained a moment’s privacy.

Daylen winked at her, then did it again, having trouble blinking with the amount of wine in his system. A moment’s focus and a rejuvenation spell sobered him up somewhat. “Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

She help up a loop of twisted rosewood. The grain seemed to shift under the light, taking on the shapes reminiscent of animals and people. “No. ‘Tis a ring.” Daylen’s eyes widened. “Now, before you get any foolish notions, let me explain. Flemeth once gave me the ring because it allowed her to find me no matter where I went, in case I was captured by hunters. I disabled its power as soon as we left the Wilds. Recently, however, I thought to change it.”

Daylen smiled guiltily. “You mean, after I fell off a cliff and was missing for the better part of a day?”

“Exactly that,” Morrigan said dryly. “Now, I will be able to find whoever wears it instead.”

“You would always know where I am,” Daylen realized. “That could be very useful.”

“Now, ‘tis not to track you, you understand,” Morrigan went on. “I believe you are too important to risk. If you were to get captured, however, it would be far easier to find you with this.”

“A growing risk, these days,” Daylen agreed. “Does it do anything else?”

“Flemeth used to say that ‘twas a link between us, once that I presumed worked both ways. I have never tested it, but I doubt she would have lied over such a thing. So it would mean I am linked to you as much as you to I.”

“So if _you_ got captured,” Morrigan raised an eyebrow, “Oh, come on, we all have off days.” The witch giggled as Daylen quoted her, and the mage grinned at her. “I could find you, if need be?”

“I…do not know,” Morrigan admitted. “As I said, I have never tested it. Perhaps.”

“So, you’re giving this to me purely out of practicality,” Daylen mused.

“I…have no desire to see us part company so soon,” Morrigan replied. “Not unless we wish to, that is.” She sighed, going on quickly. “Do not read more into it than is there. You have supplied me with equipment, certainly this is not so very different, is it?”

“I’m glad to see you care,” Daylen muttered.

“Now you are mocking me,” Morrigan snapped. “Do you wish the ring or not? I am tempted to simply keep it!”

“Thank you for the gift, Morrigan,” Daylen said warmly. “I appreciate it.”

“You…are welcome,” she replied. “Perhaps it will be useful someday.”

Daylen slipped it on his left hand, rubbing his thumb against the wood. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

“Now, if you will excuse me, I am heading to bed.” She paused. “I believe they have placed us in the same quarters. If you insist on waiting down here too long, you shall find me asleep when you arrive.” She paused again. “Do not keep me waiting. You are foolish, but you have your uses.”

It was odd how Morrigan always managed to do that to him, Daylen thought as she stalked up the stairs. He was no blushing virgin, for sure. Moving from the Gallows to Kinloch Hold had meant that curfews typically meant far less than the Templars thought they did. At the Gallows, moving around unnoticed by Templars was less a useful skill and more a way of not being singled out as one’s new plaything. At Kinloch Hold, most Templars wouldn’t notice a dragon if it walked by and blew fire up their skirts. The end result was that Daylen had spent more than a few nights curled up in a bunk in the female apprentices’ dormitory or in a bunk that wasn’t his own in his own dormitory, and more lovely – sweaty – afternoons between the stacks in the library than he had bothered to keep count of.

And yet all Morrigan had to do was raise an eyebrow and give him that look of disdainful semi-interest and he tripped over his tongue like he was twelve years old again. The Warden was deep enough in thought that when Zevran prodded him in the shoulder, Daylen found himself jumping aside hard enough to nearly knock a mounted suit of armor off of its display plinth.

“You ought to wear a fucking bell, Zevran,” Daylen rasped, his eyes wide. “I didn’t even hear you coming.”

“I would be a poor assassin if I was noisy,” Zevran replied, clearly ignoring the memory  of how he and the Warden had first met. “But I must ask – did anyone get _you_ something? After all, everyone else has gotten gifts from you. Did you receive anything?”

“Well, Morrigan gave me this,” Daylen said, holding up his hand so the ring caught the light. “Besides that, I'm taking their following me as a gift.”

Zevran shook his head. “That will not do. I am grateful for the brandy, and the boots, and for sparing my life, but…” He knelt, digging around in his pack. “I noticed you often have to use lyrium in battle, keeping them in that satchel.”

“Yes, that's true. Something on your mind?” Zevran stood, a series of leather straps in his hands. “Zevran, I may be a bit of a hound, but being tied up was never that appealing.”

The elf snorted. “Perhaps another time. These straps will hold your lyrium potions, elfroot potions, and could even hold the explosives I use, should you choose to carry them.”

The Warden took the bandolier gently, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I...wow. Thank you, Zevran. This...this is really nice.” He cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “Actually, this is one of the nicest things anyone has ever gotten me.”

“Think nothing of it,” the elf replied. “After all, if you die, it would look good for me, but I have no desire to return to the Crows.”

Daylen looked up at that. “About that. Zevran, I've been meaning to say...you can leave.”

The assassin flinched. “You want me to go?”

“No, no, no,” Daylen said quickly. “I didn't say that. I really do appreciate your assistance and we'd probably all be dead if it weren't for you.” Zevran raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on. “All right, we’d _definitely_ all be dead. But I don't want you to feel obligated to stay. You shouldn't accompany us simply because you promised to, but because you _want_ to.”

The elf stared at him for a moment. “And what makes you think that is not the case?”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Because nobody in their right mind would follow me?”

Zevran laughed. “You have a point, at that. Relax, Warden. I follow you of my own free will.” He glanced at the stairs. “So, shall you be joining your lovely witch upstairs?”

“Not right away,” Daylen replied casually. “It’s good to remind her that I’m not just her plaything sometimes, that she’s also mine.”

Zevran shrugged. “In my experience it is never wise to keep a lady waiting.”

“True,” Daylen admitted. “But this…whatever she and I have? I will not allow her to completely control it.”

“She is unsure of herself, you realize, of course,” Zevran commented.

“Of course I realize that,” Daylen said softly. “That’s why I’m only going to keep her waiting a short time. So, is becoming an assassin a process, or does it simply require a will to kill?”

Zevran sighed. “The Crows would have you believe that it is an involved process that takes years of training, the sort that tests both your resolve and endurance. Survive that process and maybe, just maybe, you’re good enough to start being considered one of them. But quite frankly the truth is as you said, all it requires is a desire to kill people for a living. It’s surprising how well one can do in such a field. I don’t know whether it necessarily takes any special skill, simply a slightly different skill set from your average killer, as I see it. An assassin simply specializes in striking from stealth, and in maximizing that first attack to be as lethal as possible.”

“Says the man whose first attack involved missing my entire team with a falling tree,” Daylen pointed out.

“I never said I was a _perfect_ assassin,” Zevran replied. “Debilitate your foe, either by poison or by crippling their limbs, and you make any follow-up combat you need to engage in that much easier.”

“Well, that certainly sounds like an advantage,” Daylen mused.

“See? Getting paid for the act is beside the point. An assassin is more a tactical choice than a lifestyle. Of course, the Crows like to pretend that their abilities are trade secrets, shrouded in shadows and wrapped in a blanket of mystery. So let’s just keep this between you and me, shall we?”

“You have my word,” Daylen assured him. “Truth be told, being an assassin doesn’t sound it would be very difficult for a mage. Just walk up to them, introduce yourself, melt all their skin off, and run like the wind.” [1]

“That would certainly be an option,” Zevran acknowledged. “Sounds like you might enjoy the work.”

“Did you enjoy being a Crow?”

“I did,” Zevran said. “There are many things to enjoy about being a Crow in Antiva. You are respected. You are feared. The authorities go out of their way to overlook your trespasses. Even the rewards are nothing to turn your nose up at. As for the killing part, well…some people simply need assassinating. Or do you disagree?”

“I would like to, but most everything in my life has led me to the conclusion that some people just need to be killed,” Daylen replied.

“I often find myself the instrument of fate, ending these lives for one necessity or another. I console myself with the notion that most of them had it coming. As far as enjoying the act of killing itself, why not? There is a certain artistry to the deed, the pleasure of sinking your blade into their flesh and knowing that their life is in your hands.”

“I don’t know if I take any real pleasure from killing in and of itself,” Daylen mused. “I enjoy using my magic, and sure, it’s fun to demolish darkspawn with it, but I don’t _enjoy_ committing violence against people.”

“As is your right,” Zevran replied. “There are many things I did not enjoy about being a Crow, of course. Having no choice, being treated as an expandable commodity, the rules…oh, so many rules. But simply being an assassin? I like it just fine. I will continue to do it if I can, even if I am not a Crow. Honestly, could you picture me doing something else?”

“Don’t you have any other skills?” Daylen asked.

A wicked grin spread across the elf’s lips. “None that I wouldn’t get into trouble for performing publicly.”

Daylen chuckled. “Well, if you ever lose the taste for killing, you could always charm some noble with enemies into hiring you to _prevent_ an assassination.”

“Of course, but all these thoughts are moot,” Zevran said. “Chances are still good that you and I will perish, eaten by darkspawn or slain by the Crows at some point. Very gruesomely, I imagine.”

“Nobody ever said we were going to win,” Daylen replied. “Doesn’t mean you stop fighting.”[2]

“Agreed. You have any further questions?”

“Tell me a little bit about Antiva. You seem fond of it.”

“The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there,” Zevran replied. “It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom, or so the saying goes.”

“You miss it?”

“Terribly, sometimes, but I cannot go back, at least not yet. I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the Royal Palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City. Do you come from someplace comparable?”

Daylen snorted. “I’m from Kirkwall, in the Free Marches. From what I understand, it’s a pile of garbage that’s one good shove away from sliding into the sea completely. I left there at a very young age, taken to the Circle, first in Kirkwall, then in Ferelden. You’ve seen the Circle here. Hardly a ‘glittering gem’ on its best day.”

“No? That is too bad. If you were, then surely you would spend as much time boasting about is as I do!” Daylen laughed, and Zevran grew pensive. “You know what is most odd? We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the lillo flutes of the minstrels, I miss the leather the most. That is why I am so grateful for the boots. For years, I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City’s leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates. I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me of home more than anything else.”

“You sound like you’ve been away from home forever,” Daylen commented.

Zevran shrugged. “Oh, not so long, I know. It is my first time away from Antiva, however, and the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly.”

“Your home is still there, Zevran,” Daylen said softly.

“True, and it’s a comforting thought. One simply never knows what is to come next. How could I have suspected that I would end up defeated by a handsome Grey Warden, a man who then spares my life? I could not.”

Daylen raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be flattery?”

“Perhaps that was a poor choice of words,” Zevran allowed. “True though it is. Do you object?”

“No, of course not,” Daylen replied. “Look, Zevran, that romp with Isabela was certainly fun,” the elf grinned at the memory, “and Maker knows I would be a fool to turn you down again, but Morrigan and I…”

The elf held up a hand, nodding in understanding. “Say no more. I am no cheat – I would not expect you to be, either.”

“Now, speaking of Morrigan,” Daylen commented, glancing at the stairs, “I think I’ve annoyed her enough by waiting to get her in the proper mood.”

—ROTG—

Morrigan collapsed onto Daylen, her lithe frame shaking against him as she slowly came down from the physical peak. “You are insatiable,” she murmured into his chest, climbing off of him.

“Speak for yourself,” Daylen teased, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her against him, and nipping lightly at her ear. “Not to spoil the mood, but I had a few questions about your mother.”

“Ask, then,” Morrigan said sleepily. “I may even answer.”

“Is she really what she seems to be?”

Morrigan chuckled, pushing closer to Daylen and enjoying the physical response it provoked in him. “Well that depends, does it not? What does she seem to be?”

Daylen thought about a suitable response for a moment, before settling on an unsure, “Human?”

“Oh, she certainly was human, once,” Morrigan said. “Tell me, how much do you know of the tale? The one that the Chasind still tell of my mother, to frighten them into obedience?”

“Tales are one thing,” Daylen replied. “I’ve heard it, but I’m more interested in the truth.”

“A dangerous and terrible thing,” Morrigan mused, staring at the lit fire crackling in the fireplace. “I can relay what Flemeth once told me, herself. And you can decide whether or not ‘tis the truth, if you desire. As the tale is told, there was a time when Flemeth was young and beautiful, a fair lass in a land of barbarian men, the desire of any who saw her. That part is true. And that part only. The tales also say that Flemeth fell in love with Osen, the bard, and fled the castle of her husband, the dread lord Conobar, and that he swore vengeance for her infidelity. As my mother tells it, ‘twas Osen who was her husband, and Conobar the jealous lord who looked on from afar. Lord Conobar approached young Osen and offered him wealth and power in exchange for his lovely wife. And Osen agreed.”

“He sold his wife to another man?”

“The life of a bard is a poor one, and love fades in the wake of hunger,” Morrigan pointed out. “Flemeth claims the arrangement ‘twas her idea. And all would have been well, had Lord Conobar simply kept his end of the bargain. But he was a foul man who bargained with coin he did not possess. Osen was led off to a field and slain, left for dead. Flemeth spoke to spirits and learned of the deed, and swore revenge.”

“A reasonable course of action if someone just stuck a knife in your husband,” Daylen mused. “She didn’t just learn about the death from the spirits, did she.”

“Flemeth begged the spirits to aid her, and ‘twas they who slew Conobar. The demon the legend tells of came later. Lord Conobar’s allies chased Flemeth, you see.  Chased her to the Wilds and there she hid. There she found the demon, and he made her strong. The legends all speak of the great hero Cormac, he who defeated Flemeth and her great army when she invaded the lowlands centuries later. All lies.”

“Bet she found that story amusing,” Daylen remarked.

“The truth of the matter was that there never was an invasion. As Flemeth tells it, the Chasind never raised an army under her banner, and she never fought with any warrior named Cormac. Cormac led a brutal civil war against his own people, and later claimed it was to vanquish evil that had taken root amongst the lords. Thus, he was hailed as a hero, and Flemeth was only attached to the legend much later. Perhaps ‘twas due to the great war with the Chasind that eventually came, but Mother claims not to know how it began.”

“And do you believe her version?”

“I do not believe everything that Flemeth claims,” Morrigan said. “Oft it seems her bitterness has colored her memories. But on the whole?” She shrugged. “Yes. I believe this tale, if not all.”

“The legends tell of Flemeth having many daughters. Have you met any others?”

Morrigan shook her head. “Never have I met any of my sisters, if they exist. I have asked of this, myself. The stories tell of many Witches of the Wilds, after all. Not just the one. And these tales existed long before I did. Perhaps they are all Flemeth, over the years, using different bodies she has taken for herself. The Chasind tell of a falling out between Flemeth and her ‘daughters.’ They say that one day she hunted them all through the Wilds and ate their hearts. It may be true. I have never seen another witch, or heard of one.”

“So we know she can be killed, but she does have advantages over us,” Daylen said softly. “And there may be others who come looking for revenge when we do kill her.” He shrugged. “Well, we’ll deal with that if it happens.”

“Dare I ask of your own mother?” Morrigan asked after a pause. “Few are abominations of legend, ‘tis true, but I find myself curious nonetheless.”

Daylen swallowed hard. “There isn’t really much to say about her. After my magic manifested, I never saw or heard from her again. She could be alive, or dead, I don’t know. Truth be told, it has been so many years, I have trouble remembering her face, her voice, what she was like.”

“I find myself a little envious, to tell the truth,” Morrigan whispered.

“Life in the Wilds must have been very lonely. Just you and her.”

“At times, perhaps,” she allowed. “A world full of people and buildings and things was all very foreign to me. If I wished companionship, I ran with the wolves and flew with the birds. If I spoke, ‘twas to the trees. In time I began to wonder, of course. I recall the first time I crept beyond the edge of the Wilds. I did so in animal form, remaining in the shadows and watching these strange townsfolk from afar. I happened upon a noblewoman by her carriage, adorned in sparkling garments the likes of which I had never before seen. I was dazzled. This, to me, seemed what true wealth and beauty must be. I snuck up behind her and stole a hand mirror from the carriage. ‘Twas encrusted in gold and crystalline gemstones and I hugged it to my chest with delight as I sped back to the Wilds.”

“That could have been dangerous,” Daylen realized. “I can’t imagine Flemeth was pleased.”

“She was _not_. She was furious with me. I was a child and had not yet come into my full power, and I had risked discovery for the sake of a pretty bauble. To teach me a lesson, Felmeth took the mirror and smashed it upon the ground. I was heartbroken.”

“Rather a harsh lesson to teach a child,” Daylen remarked.

“Beauty and love are fleeting, and have no meaning,” Morrigan shot back. “Survival has meaning. Power has meaning. Without those lessons I would not be here today, as difficult as they  might have been.”

“Well, they certainly made you stronger,” Daylen admitted.

“They did indeed. She taught me many lessons. How to survive. The truth of men. The meaning of power. If other mothers do not teach these things, then I believe them the lesser. To answer your original question, perhaps my time in the Wilds was indeed lonely. But such was how it had to be. I find myself at times wondering what might have become of the girl with the beautiful, golden mirror, but such fantasies have no place amidst reality.”

“Well, I can imagine a few fantasies that _do_ ,” Daylen said, his hand sliding down the flat plane of Morrigan’s stomach.

—ROTG—

It was a bleary-eyed, weary group that set out early the next day, bidding Bodahn farewell again as they headed south. “Should take us about six days,” Alistair pronounced, squinting at the map.

“We’re not headed directly to Ostagar,” Daylen replied. “We have to make a stop on the way.”

Alistair tilted his head. So did Cupcake. “Where? Lothering’s gone.”

“Flemeth’s hut,” Daylen said quietly. “Doing a favor.”

“We finally giving her back?” Alistair asked hopefully. Daylen slapped him in the shoulder, and the warrior grinned.

Behind them, Zevran was working a whetstone down the edge of one of his daggers, trying to work out a nick in the blade while Leliana idly picked at her new lute and Wynne was engrossed in one of the books Daylen had given her. “So tell me of this vision of yours, Leliana.”

Leliana glanced up from the instrument. “I'm not certain I wish to discuss my vision with you. You'll make fun of me.”

The assassin set the dagger down. “Nooooo, why would I ever do such a thing?”

“See? There you go. No, I am not speaking to you of it.”

Zevran shrugged. “Yes, I suppose the Maker would not want you to spread His words. Very well, I'll accept your reproach.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “I... why do you even wish to know?”

The elf smiled sweetly at her. “Why, to make fun of you, of course.”

She huffed in irritation. “You are utterly impossible.”

“On the contrary, I am often told how very easy I am, my dear.”

Daylen snorted. “Zevran, let it go. She’s clearly uncomfortable about people asking her about that vision.”

Leliana looked over. “I…how did you know that?”

Daylen looked over his shoulder. “The Guardian, of course. When that spirit started picking at you like that?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Let us change the subject, shall we?” Zevran asked. Leliana nodded gratefully. “So I imagine it has been some time for you, Leliana.”

“I should have seen this coming,” Daylen groaned.

“Some time for me?” Leliana asked. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Some time since you last knocked boots, shall we say? You did just come from the cloistered life, no?”

“Of course it has been some time,” Leliana scoffed. “There are more important things in life than ‘knocking boots,’ Zevran.”

“Oh, I'll not argue that. I simply mean that the body has urges, urges given to us by the Maker. Yours must be... considerable. After all that time.”

The bard’s tone grew cold. “That is a very personal question.”

“I mean no offense. I simply offer my services should you ever feel the need for... release.”

Leliana rolled her eyes. “Let me think about it, then. Should every man in Ferelden suddenly die, you may even have your chance.”

“A-ha! Progress!”

“I don’t know if I’d call it that,” Daylen called over his shoulder. “That would require Alistair and I to die.”

Zevran glanced over at the Qunari, patrolling on foot ahead of the wagon alongside Cupcake and Shale as Morrigan circle lazily overhead in the form of a bird. “What about Sten?”

“You saw him, back at the Gauntlet. He’s not a man. More of a man-and-a-half.”  Zevran barked out a laugh, and Leliana’s cheeks pinked, but she refused to dignify Daylen’s comment with a response.

“Man and three quarters,” Wynne commented from behind her book. Both Daylen and Alistair spun in their seats at the front of the wagon to look back at Wynne as Leliana sputtered. Wynne lowered the book slightly. “What? I’m old, not blind.”

“And to think,” Daylen remarked to Alistair. “We signed up for this.”

“So, Zevran,” Alistair called back, twisting in his seat. “The stories we hear down here about the Crows... they're not true, are they? They all sound a little far-fetched.”

The elf shrugged. “I cannot say. What have you heard? In Antiva, we hear that Fereldan men cannot sleep without a dog in their bed. Is that true?”

“A dog? No, of course not. We value our dogs, it's part of our history.” He glanced at Daylen. “I just wind up with a dog in my bed anyway.”

“Oh. Perhaps it was simply a reference to your Fereldan women, then?

Alistair laughed. “Well, now that you mention it...”

Zevran grinned at him. “But those stories you heard? All true.”

Alistair’s eyebrows went up. “Really. Even the ones that talk about how you all... you know... get paid to...”

Zevran looked immensely smug. “ _Especially_ those ones.”

Alistair’s eyebrows went higher. “Wow. I am totally in the wrong order. So those... designs you have all over your back...”

Zevran traced the markings on his face. “They're called tattoos. And I have them in many more places than just on my back, my friend.”

“Err... right. I hear that someone gets those by having needles put the ink under your skin?”

Zevran nodded. “A great many needles, amongst other things. Yes, that would be true.”

Alistair winced. “Didn't that hurt?”

Zevran kept nodding. “Ohhh, yes, yes. But it is not so bad, in truth. If you like, I could give you one. I learned a bit of the art myself in Antiva.”

Alistair put on a polite smile that didn’t come anywhere near his eyes. “Oh, no. No, I don't think so.”

Zevran waved his objection off. “Come, it will just be a small one. Perhaps the symbol of the Grey Wardens? Something manly! Where are my needles?”

“I’m not _entirely_ averse to the idea,” Alistair admitted. “I’m not worried about the pain. I think they look interesting, though I'd want mine... smaller. When can you do it?”

Zevran shook his head. “Not so fast, my friend. There is an entire ritual to how this is done, do you not know? First I need to bathe you in a mixture of olives and rosewater.”

Alistair leaned back. “You need to... bathe me? That seems... odd.”

“No, no, no, not at all. It needs to be worked into your skin, preparing it to receive the ink. The massage is quite pleasurable, do not worry. You are in good hands.”

Alistair was looking increasingly unsure. “The... massage? You're... having me on, aren't you?”

“I might be. I might not be. Shall I describe the rest of the ritual to you?”

“Hmm. No.” Alistair shook his head. “No, on second thought I'll just pass.”

Zevran laughed. “Excellent choice!”

“These markings of yours... they have a certain appeal,” Leliana commented. “They remind me of how we used to paint our faces in Orlais.”

“Ah, but these are not just paint,” Zevran replied, tapping the marks again.

“Do they mean anything to you? These symbols?”

“Some do... some symbols are sacred to the Crows. I am not permitted to tell you what they mean.” Zevran winked. “Others are there to accentuate the lines of the body... its curves and musculature. It is hard to explain with armor and clothing on.”

Leliana looked confused. “But I don't recall seeing many markings on your body.”

Zevran’s grin grew. “Ah, no, of course not. They are not in the places you have yet seen. I can show you, if you wish.”

The bard’s cheeks pinked slightly again. “Err... no, I think not,” Leliana replied, shaking her head.

Zevran finished his maintenance and sheathed the dagger. “Is this a problem?”

“Not at all,” Leliana said, a little too quickly. “I am merely content looking at the markings on your face, that is all.”

“Have it your way,” Zevran said with a shrug. “Should you change your mind...”

Leliana rolled her eyes. “You'll be the first to know, don't you worry.”

—ROTG—

_Brother Ferdinand Genitivi  
"As it is the duty of all true sons of the Chantry to make the Chant heard from every corner of the world, I made it my mission to find as many corners of the world as possible. The Maker can hardly expect us to do one without the other."_

_\--Excerpt from In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar by Brother Genitivi_

_Brother Genitivi is one of the Chantry's most well-known scholars, primarily on the basis of the stories he has published (which many of his contemporaries dismiss as fanciful) of his travels across the length and breadth of Thedas._

_His travels, and rather too-curious nature, led him to a study of folklore, which gave him the notion that he could track down that most-debated of all artifacts: the Urn of Sacred Ashes. He announced that he had found what appeared to be the trail of the Urn, left in the legends of the regions through which it had passed from Minrathous on its way into hiding._

_And he appears to have been right. The final resting place of Andraste lay at the summit of a remote mountain. He returned to Denerim a little worse for wear, and was granted funds and manpower to mount an expedition to study the temple in which the Urn is kept._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Skyrim. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Person of Interest. [ return to text ]


	20. Hunting Flemeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following through on a promise sometimes carries a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_The Korcari Wilds  
It is said that in the midst of the Black Age, when werewolves stalked the lands of Ferelden in numbers that kept every farmholder indoors and a hound on every doorstep, a powerful arl of the Alamarri peoples stood and declared that he would put an end to the threat. His arling stood on the border of the dark forest on the southern border of the Ferelden Valley, and he claimed that the werewolves used the forest to launch their midnight assaults on humanity._

_For 20 years, this arl led an army of warriors and hounds deep into the forest. In his hunt for the werewolves, he slew not only every wolf he came upon, but also every member of the Chasind wilder folk. Any one of them, he said, could harbor a demon inside and thus be a werewolf in disguise. For 20 years, the forest rang with screams, and the rivers ran red._

_The tales say that an old Chasind woman found her sons all dead at the arl's blades. She pulled one of those very blades from one son's heart and plunged it into her own chest, cursing the arl's name as she did so. Where her blood touched the ground, a mist began to rise. It spread and spread until it was everywhere in the forest. The arl's army became lost, and it is said that they died there. Others say they wander still. The ruins of his arling stand to this day, filled with the ghosts of women waiting eternally for their husbands to return._

_The forest of the legend is, of course, the Korcari Wilds. There are as many legends about the great southern forest as there are shadows, or so the saying goes. The Chasind wilder folk have made their home there since mankind first came to these lands, and the wildlands spread as far into the south as anyone has ventured. Beyond the mists are vast tracts of snow, white-capped mountains, and entire fields of ice. It is a land too cold for mankind to survive, yet the Chasind eke out an existence even there, and they tell of horrors beyond the Wilds that the lowland folk could not begin to comprehend._

_To most, Ferelden simply ends with the Korcari Wilds: There is nothing beyond. The Wilds is a land of great trees, wet marshes and dangerous monsters. What more need be said?_

_\--From Land of the Wilders, by Mother Ailis, Chantry scholar, 9:18 Dragon._

—ROTG—

“Lothering should be around the next bend,” Daylen said. “Alistair, Zevran, come with me. Everyone else, stay here.”

Leliana made to get off the wagon. “What’s going-”

Daylen turned. “I said, _stay here_.” He whistled to Cupcake. “Keep a nose out, boy.”

Zevran grabbed a longbow from the wagon, slinging a quiver half-full of arrows over his shoulder and stringing the bow with a few easy movements. “He seems upset.”

“He’s got good reason,” Alistair murmured, following the Warden. “He feels responsible for the destruction of the village that’s up ahead.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow “He feels, what? That he should have stopped the horde by himself? That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes, but it hit him hard, hearing about the destruction of the village,” Alistair went on. “You saw how shaken up he was, back in Denerim, when he heard. And I think part of why he was so insistent on Leliana waiting back there was that this was her home for years.”

“He wants to spare her from seeing the destruction,” Zevran realized.

“And I can see why,” Alistair breathed, as the remnants of Lothering came into view. “Maker’s breath…”

Honnleath had been in bad shape when the Wardens and their companions arrived, ravaged by a darkspawn attack. Lothering was worse. Large segments of the village were simply gone, as if a giant had simply swept the buildings away. The Chantry was half-collapsed, two of the four walls missing entirely and the steeple laying shattered across the town square.

“We need to circle around the village,” Daylen said. “Leliana doesn’t need to see this. We’ll backtrack, take side roads, make camp well away from here.”

Alistair nodded. “It seems we’ve managed to bypass most of them so far, but I would bet from here on, we’re probably not going to be that lucky.”

Alistair was right. Between leaving the Imperial Highway and making camp that night, the party encountered eight packs of darkspawn, motley mixes of genlocks, hurlocks, and the odd shriek. With the full party together, the fights were rather one-sided, but the constant presence of wandering packs of darkspawn kept pressure on the two Wardens and left them short on rest and shorter on patience.

As the group dug into their trail rations, Leliana was pacing slowly. The group’s fire was kept as small as possible, just enough to provide light to see by rather than heat to cook. “You are sure that there wouldn’t be any game in these parts?”

“The Blight does that,” Alistair replied. “Animals, plants, trees, they all die. You wouldn’t find so much as a raw hare around these, even one with Blight disease.”

“Welcome to the Blight,” Daylen said, smiling humorlessly.

Zevran was busily sharpening his dagger, Cupcake curled up on the ground watching him. “We have dogs in Antiva,” the elf said to him. “They run in the streets and eat garbage.” Cupcake gave a curious whine, and Zevran shrugged. “It's true. They're treated as vermin, mostly. Not like here in Ferelden. You're rather lucky to live here, you know.” The mabari barked happily, and Zevran nodded. “Indeed. Here they make statues of dogs. They carve you into their thrones and put armor on you.” The elf looked around. “Amazing, really. But you still smell like a dog. In fact, you smell like several dogs.”

“It’s only fair,” Daylen commented. “He’s worth several dogs, to me.”

“ _Whuff_!”

Zevran smiled faintly. “Yes, well, ignorance is bliss, I suppose.” He paused, giving the dog a wary look. “I noticed some dog drool in my pack this morning.” Cupcake’s tongue lolled out, and he gave the assassin his best innocent look. “Not that I like to make accusations. And I even appreciate the artistry behind a good burgle when I see it, to tell the truth. But leaving all that drool as evidence? Sloppy.” The dog barked again, and Zevran grunted noncommittally. “I'll take that as an apology.”

At this point, Alistair and Daylen were both sniggering, and Zevran winked. “I'm so glad you're pleased. It really is quite something to find such enthusiasm in one's companions.” Cupcake barked ecstatically, and Zevran rolled his eyes. “I agree. Go, team. Hurrah.”

The dog was scratching behind his ear when Shale spoke up. “There is an intelligence behind those canine eyes of yours, dog.” Cupcake tilted his head, listening to the golem. “Someone sought to create a useful tool, and they employed magic to create the dog. If the dog would have decided differently, had it had a choice? Would it have remained a stupid and ineffective hound, but a happy one?” Cupcake’s reply was a confused whine. “Just... keep your urine to yourself.” Cupcake barked happily, and Shale leaned closer. “I am watching you, dog. Do you know how many of your kind urinated on me in that village? And all I could is stand there and watch, helpless. If I see one of those legs of yours lift so much as an inch in my direction,” Shale smacked a fist into an open hand, “pow!” Cupcake whimpered, and Shale stood up straight. “I am glad we have this understanding. At least your kind can be reasoned with... unlike those damned feathered fiends!”

“So, Zevran,” Daylen said to the elf. “What’s the food like in Antiva?”

“Nothing like what you have here,” the elf replied diplomatically. “Your cooking here is…rather odd, really.”

“Oh?”

Zevran forced a smile. “Yes. There’s actual flavor, for one. Perhaps the biggest adjustment I had to make was that you _never empty the stew pot._ It was about three days of meals before I realized I may have been chewing the same rabbit I caught my first night with your party. Fereldan cooking is a cruel joke, and it has probably killed more people than the Crows.”

“Speaking of which,” Daylen said. “I realize you may be reluctant to get yourself in deeper trouble with the Crows, but could you teach others to be an assassin?”

Zevran shrugged. “I could teach others, Leliana for example, but not yourself. First, I would need someone who has training as a rogue, or a skirmisher…that is, unless you would care to spend the years it takes to gain the fundamentals.”

Daylen shook his head. “I might be interested, but there just isn’t time.”

“A shame. But if there should be such a person who desires this training? Yes, by all means. Send them to me.”

“You would let this knowledge go so willingly?”

Zevran shrugged. “The Crows are already furious, no? I shall enjoy tweaking their nose further.”

“You must have some great stories,” Daylen prodded.

“Stories?” Zevran chuckled. “I’m hardly an old man just returned from across the ocean, am I? Should I shake my fist at nearby children while I talk about the old days?”

“Only until you let me know how to kill by launching them at great speed,” Daylen replied. “I’m still wondering about that one. But you certainly talk like you’ve got some stories to tell, like you’ve had some adventures.”

“Falling down a flight of stairs is an adventure,” Zevran said. “Falling into someone’s bed? Also an adventure. I am assuming what you’re looking for are professional adventures.”

“One at a time, but let’s start with the professional side.”

The assassin snorted. “My second mission ever for the Crows was a bit intriguing. I was sent to kill a mage who had been meddling in politics.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. The Crows were willing to anger the Circle of Magi?”

“In Antiva, nobody is too important to escape the reach of the Crows. They have killed kings and queens. That is simply how it is. As it turned out, the mage in question was quite a delightful young woman. Long, divine legs, as I recall. I caught her in a carriage on her way to escape the provinces. After I killed her guard, she got down on her hands and knees and begged for her life…rather aptly, I might add. So I joined her in the carriage for the night and left the next morning.”

“And she didn’t try to kill you?” Daylen asked incredulously. “Once she’d gotten you naked, she could have just-”

“Well, yes, she did try,” Zevran admitted. “Twice, actually. Then she decided to try to use me, instead. The woman had actually convinced me to speak to the Crows on her behalf.” At Daylen’s dumbfounded look, Zevran shrugged. “What can I say? I was young and foolish at the time. As I was kissing her goodbye to return to Antiva City, she slipped on the threshold and fell backwards out of the carriage. Broke her neck. Shame, really, but at least it happened quickly.”

“Well, that must have been a shock.”

“Completely,” Zevran agreed. “I wasn’t exactly _upset_ , you see. Surprised is a better word. Then I found out that she had told the driver to take her Genellan instead. She had planned to lose me in the provinces. I would have looked very foolish to the Crows.”

“And with her dead from a broken neck like that, it looked the perfect accident,” Daylen realized.

“Exactly. My master was very impressed, that I had done such a fine job of making it look like an accident. The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play, and everyone was happier all around.” Zevran paused. “Well, except her. And her driver. And her lover, I suppose. Both were out of a job, after all.”

“These sorts of things happen to you often?” Alistair asked.

“Like being spared by a benevolent mark who then helps me escape from the Crows?” Daylen had the decency to look guilty. “Yes, it does seem to happen now and again, doesn’t it? It was after that when I learned that one needn’t let a pretty face go to your head. Professionalism was key. That’s my moral of the day, you see.”

“A wise lesson,” Leliana commented. “Too many people believe that beauty equals goodness.” She winked at Zevran. “They never see people such as us coming.”

“Too true, my dear,” Zevran replied. “A lesson that not everyone learns, I’m sad to say.”

“What other stories do you have?” Daylen asked.

“What else might interest you, I wonder,” Zevran mused. “Oh! Shall I describe the stages involved with lanthrax poisoning? I watched a man go through all seven, once.”

“Well, that sounds like a fun time,” Daylen snarked.

“Oh, it is,” Leliana interjected. “I can never remember. Is the part where he bites off his own tongue stage four, or five?”

Zevran looked alarmed. “I have never seen _that_ result from lanthrax poisoning.”

“Then you’re not using enough,” Leliana said primly.

Zevran stared at her a moment longer, before looking back to Daylen. “How about the largest battle I ever took part in? That would have been the slaughter of Prince Azrin. Did you hear of that down in these parts?”

“We at the Circle don’t get out much,” Daylen replied. “You killed a prince?”

“Me? Not personally, but I did take part in the attack. Prince Azrin was fourth in line to the throne, you see. He started off as eleventh, but worked his way up the old-fashioned method, by inheriting control of an entire Crow cell from his grandfather.”

“Which I’m guessing he put to good use,” Daylen surmised.

“Indeed,” Zevran replied. “After assassinating his way through the royal family, the king hired three other cells to take down Prince Azrin once and for all. I was in one of those cells.”

“Is this sort of thing common in Antiva?”

“Antivan royalty is very much bound up in the Crows. You wouldn’t want it run by a bunch of commoners, after all, would you? And this means that they get involved in politics quite often. This particular fight nearly bankrupted the nation, I understand. It almost ended up putting a crow on the throne, a commoner, but that’s a whole different story. I played a very small part.”

“Small parts sometimes have big effects,” Daylen said.

“My part in the entire battle was taken up trying to reach Princess Ferenna, who had thrown in with her brother. I killed about eleven of her guards personally before I got knocked out of a window.” Daylen winced. “I landed in the river and nearly drowned. I was fished out by some urchins who robbed me blind. Made off with my boots, too! At least they didn’t cut my throat.” The assassin spread his hands wide. “And that was my part in history.”

“Getting thrown out a window and robbed by urchins?” Alistair asked.

“And having to find my way back to the safehouse, bruised and naked,” Zevran added. “And thankful to be alive.”

Daylen snorted out a laugh. “Any other stories? The evening’s still young.”

“Well, the only one that’s really worth telling is the story of the mission right before I came to Ferelden,” Zevran allowed. “But…no, I…I would rather not.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Something wrong?” Daylen asked.

“Nothing that I would prefer to speak of,” the elf said stiffly. “Perhaps another day. I am sorry.”

Daylen was staring at Zevran, his eyes narrowed.  It was only when voices at the other end of the camp grew louder that the mage glanced over, seeing Morrigan and Wynne arguing. “I would,” Morrigan sneered. “Of course, I am still young, beautiful, and my life is my own while you are bound to that Circle.” She shook her head disdainfully. “I wonder why I asked. It would be a silly thing, prolonging your life. A waste.”

“Think what you will, Morrigan,” Wynne said acidly. “When the end comes, I will go gladly to my rest, proud of my achievements. While you... you will see how empty your life was. You will realize that because you never had love for others, you never received love in return. And you will die alone and unmourned.”

And it was at that moment that Daylen's patience snapped like a dry twig. “Really, Wynne? What achievements are those, precisely? Nagging a bunch of children who couldn't give a rat's flea-infested arse what you say, because they're too worried the Templar in the corner is going to take an axe to them next week? Teaching a bunch of students who are either dead now or perpetuating the same 'guilt by birth' _horseshit_ that the Circle has been peddling for centuries?”

“Daylen,” Leliana began softly, hoping to intervene.

The Warden ignored her. “Or are you referring to how you tried – and failed – to persuade both Aneirin and myself to return to the Circle despite the fact that I'm a Warden for life and Aneirin would literally be killed _on sight_? Those achievements? Really, Wynne, you can pretend you've changed things in life all you want, but the fact is you can’t prove that anything you've ever done before joining this group has meant _anything_ in the long run.” He shook his head in disgust. “I have had it with your sermons. You've done nothing but lecture me about my duty and tell me my job since you joined, yet you abandoned the Circle. They needed you and you _walked out on them_.” Daylen broke off, finally realizing what he was saying. Clearing his throat, he tried a different tack, his voice lower and calmer. “You seem to think the Wardens are some sort of idealistic protectors, paragons of virtue and honor. We're not. I would apologize for bursting your bubble like that, but I'm rather enjoying it, really. You know what Duncan told me on the road to Ostagar about the Warden's approach to things? 'Victory at any cost.' _Any cost_. You know what I saw him do at my Joining?”

“Daylen,” Alistair said warningly.

“He _gutted_ a man who refused to go through with it. Remorselessly.” Wynne was ashen at this point, and Daylen turned on Morrigan. “And you! Enough already! We’re supposed to be working as a team here, and I am _done_ with the back-and-forth bickering!” The mage pressed his knuckles into his eyes, taking a deep breath before shaking his head. “Everyone, get some sleep. We’ll need to move at first light.”

It was hours later that Alistair sat up in his tent, glancing out and spotting the fire still lit. Clambering out, he spotted Daylen sitting by the fire, carving at a block of wood with a spare knife. Shale was quietly patrolling around the edges of the camp, pointedly ignoring them. “Not sleeping?”

“Not tired,” Daylen replied without looking up. Shivering, Alistair ducked back inside his tent and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around himself and sitting down by the other Warden. “You?”

“I get restless when my best friend is up all night playing with knives,” the warrior said flatly. Daylen replied by blowing some shavings off the block of wood before glaring at him pointedly. “And I get concerned about the big lummox when he doesn’t sleep.”

“Get some sleep,” Daylen ordered. He looked up at Alistair and waggled his fingers, magic sparking across them. “Rejuvenation magic. I’m good.”

Alistair stood up, crossing his arms. “Daylen, I’m not talking to you as your follower, or a fellow Warden. I’m talking as your friend. Be honest with me. You haven’t slept a full night since we left Redcliffe. You’re up when I go to bed, and you’re awake before anyone else gets up. ” Daylen flinched. “You’re grumpy and impatient, and the others are starting to notice, especially after your little speech tonight. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Daylen sighed, rubbing his forehead with two fingers, the knife in his hands coming dangerously close to his eye. “Yes, you’re right. I haven’t been sleeping. The Guardian, my talk with Arl Eamon at Redcliffe, the little trip I took through the Fade back at the Circle, it’s all…” He stashed the block of wood in his satchel, sliding the knife into a sheath on his belt. “It’s dug up many things that I thought that I had buried deep, or at least moved past long ago. Sleeping lately hasn’t been all that easy. Between the Warden dreams and what’s been dredged up from my own past, I’ll take the blasted darkspawn. At least they just want to kill me.”

Alistair nodded slowly. “I still dream about the Templars, sometimes. Nightmares, sometimes, that I never joined the Wardens, that I became a full Templar. What I saw, among the older ones…they really lose themselves, at the end. It’s like they’re there, but they’ve lost their grip on the world. I’m grateful to Duncan, getting me out of there before I became like them.” The warrior winced. “But then, we Wardens lose ourselves too, at the end, don’t we.”

“We’re nowhere near the end, Alistair.” Daylen leaned back. “What were they like?”

“What, the Grey Wardens?” Daylen nodded. “I didn’t know them for very long, but I guess it was longer than you. You never met them all, did you?”

“I met you, Duncan, Richu, and one other Warden,” Daylen replied, pulling out the block of wood and his knife again. “I never even saw any of the others, let alone met them.”

“They were quite a group,” Alistair said. “Actually, they felt more like an extended family, since we were all cut off from our former lives. Everyone who came there, they didn’t belong anywhere else, either. They didn’t know anything about me or where I came from, and they didn’t care. I was there and I fought alongside them, and that made me family.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “They didn’t know about your heritage?”

“Duncan knew, obviously,” Alistair explained. “But after I joined the Wardens, he took me aside and asked whether I wanted to keep it a secret or not. I said yes, I didn’t want them to treat me differently. He promised me that he would never tell. And as far as I know, he never did.”

“Sometimes you keep secrets from family,” Daylen allowed. “You’re right, they would have treated you differently had they known.”

“We were a mixed group, mostly humans, very few mages, but right around the time I joined, there was this grizzled old dwarf named Kherek, must have been pushing sixty. He’d fought for years in Orzammar, rescued a group of Grey Warden recruits from a pack of darkspawn and just sort of…followed them back and went through the Joining. He left for his Calling not long before reports of the Blight began. There was Tarimel, an elf that was at Ostagar as well. And there was also Reyor, the Warden-Constable.” At Daylen’s blank look, Alistair explained. “Basically the second-in-command to the Warden-Commander.”

“Any particular stand-outs amongst the humans?” Daylen asked.

“A few. There was Rondall, he Joined not long before me, but he had years of experience as a mercenary before he became a Warden. It was a good day, the first time I beat him in a sparring match. Everyone laughed when I finally got the sword away from him. We laughed more than you’d think.” A smile began to grow on his face. “There was this one time…” The smile faded. “Well, you probably don’t want to hear stories about men you didn’t know.”

“I’d like to hear more about them,” Daylen reassured him, flicking a sliver of wood into the fire.

“There was one Grey Warden who came all the way from the Anderfels.” Alistair screwed his face up, thinking. “What was his name. Gregor? Grigor? Big, burly man, with the biggest, fuzziest beard you’ve ever seen. And the man could _drink_. He drank all the time, but he never got drunk. Finally, we made a pool to see just how many pints it would take to put him under the table.”

“Sounds like you had a lot of fun,” Daylen said.

“Sometimes,” Alistair allowed. “We were kin, of a sort. All of us had gone through the Joining, so we knew…” He shrugged. “Anyhow, it doesn’t have to be deadly serious all the time.”

“So how much did it take to knock him out?” Daylen asked.

Alistair chuckled. “We never did find out. He said he’d drink a pint for every half-pint that the rest of us drank. He was still going by the time the rest of us were passed out.” Daylen snorted out a laugh. “I’m told that Duncan walked in later on, and saw us all passed out from one end of the hall to the other, and Gregor, _still drinking_. Duncan laughed until he nearly…” Alistair’s smile faded. “Until…”

“A lot of people have died, Alistair,” Daylen said softly. “And a lot more will.”

“Yes, I…I suppose so,” Alistair mumbled. “I thought I was done with this, but…it just struck me that I have nothing to remember Duncan by. Nothing at all. There’s no body, not even a token of his that I could…take with me. That must…sound really stupid to you.”

Daylen gave him a wry smile. “Not at all. For years, I had this little amulet with the family crest that my mother gave me, back in Kirkwall. Nothing expensive or special or anything like that, but it was all I had to remember her by. I never took it off, even when I was in the bath. Had to change the chain I wore it on a few times, because the metal just got too worn.”

“Do you still have it?”

Daylen winced. “I was wearing it when that dragon torched me.” His eyes narrowed, and he dug into his satchel. “You know, Duncan gave me a token, back in Lothering, and…” He pulled it out, brushing some dirt off and passing it over to Alistair. “It’s not much, but it was his.”

“This is a standard Warden trust token,” Alistair said, turning it over in his hand before tucking it away. “They hand these out all the time. But it’s something.”

“So, you told me that Duncan had to use the Right of Conscription to get you away from the Templars,” Daylen recalled. “I feel like there’s more of a story behind that.”

Alistair gave him an impish grin. “Quite the story. Duncan came looking for recruits in Redcliffe, you see, and the Knight-Commander, Gavin or Glavin or something, decided to have a tournament in his honor. There were Templars from all over Ferelden coming to show off their skill, and they left me out.” Daylen snorted out a laugh, and Alistair shot him a grin. “Duncan asked why I hadn’t been called to fight, and Glavin said it was because I was a smart-mouthed troublemaker.”

“I suppose he was being diplomatic,” Daylen jibed.

Alistair sniffed disdainfully. “Yes, very, he had no appreciation for true talent. Or my enjoyment of a fine cheese. When a mouse eats an entire wheel in one sitting, they’re just being mice, but when I do it, I’m ‘wasting food’ and ‘banned from the kitchens.’ The fools.” Daylen was choking back laughter at this point, and Alistair cleared his throat, continuing with his story. “Duncan asked him to let me fight, so I did. And my, did that upset some of the other competitors. So I decided to be myself, irritate them some more, and win where I could.”

“How did they react when you won the tournament?”

“Oh, I didn’t win,” Alistair said. “Three times, I lost, to different Templars. Good fighters, all of them, and to be quite honest, some of the warriors I beat were probably better than I was at the time, and I simply got lucky. But when the dust settled, Duncan picked me. The Knight-Commander just about turned purple. I don’t know who was more surprised, him or me. I asked Duncan why he picked me, since I didn’t win, and Duncan told me that he didn’t ask for them to hold the tournament, and he didn’t offer recruitment as the prize. He just came there looking for a warrior of character, and he believed I was one.”

“I bet the Templar barracks are quieter without you around,” Daylen commented. “Less interesting, too.”

“Oh, certainly,” Alistair agreed. “It used to get so quiet at the monastery that I would start screaming until one of the brothers came running. I would tell them that I was just checking. You never know, right?”

Daylen nearly dropped his knife. “You did that too? We used to do that at the Circle. Said we were just checking for echoes. Pissed the Templars off something fierce.”

Alistair burst out laughing. “That’s precious! The look on their face was always priceless.”

Sunrise found both Wardens awake, their tents already broken down and discussing plans. Leliana crawled out of her tent first, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and running her hands through her hair. “Have you two been awake all night?”

“Dusk to dawn,” Daylen said. “Don’t worry, we’ll be ready. Warden stamina.”

“I see,” the bard replied, looking unsure. “So, today we…” Daylen nodded. “Is it not…incredibly, ridiculously, obscenely dangerous to attempt to kill such a person?”

“Yes, but that’s what we get paid for,” Daylen replied.

“We get paid?” Alistair asked.

Daylen gave him a mock glare, glancing at the map. “Alistair, have you felt a single darkspawn since that last pack we killed yesterday?”

“Not a one.”

“Then we’re close to her hut,” Daylen declared. “Morrigan mentioned that her mother would have some sort of magic keeping the darkspawn at bay. Unless the Archdemon shows up, we shouldn’t be feeling anymore Blighted creatures for a while.”

“If it does, we’ll have bigger problems,” Alistair replied. “Do we have it marked on the map?”

“Here,” Daylen said, prodding at an inked dot on the map. “I don’t remember the exact path, but we’ve got written directions.”

“Good enough,” Alistair muttered.

“So, while Zevran’s still asleep,” Daylen said, glancing at Leliana. “This vision of yours…”

“Oh, not you too,” the bard sighed. “I won’t discuss it if you’re going to make fun!”

“Warden’s honor, no teasing,” Daylen promised.

Leliana gave him a hard look, but nodded. “I had a dream. There was an impenetrable darkness. It was so dense, so real. And there was a noise, a terrible, ungodly noise. I stood on a peak and watched as the darkness consumed everything, and when the storm swallowed the last of the sun’s light, I…” her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “I fell, and the darkness drew me in.”

“Sounds about as direct a dream of the Blight as you could expect a non-Warden to have,” Alistair said quietly.

“I suppose I did dream of the Blight,” Leliana admitted. “That was what the darkness was, no? When I woke, I went to the Chantry’s gardens, as I always do. But that day, the rosebush in the corner had flowered.” She looked Daylen in the eyes, the Warden’s gaze steady. “Everyone _knew_ that bush was dead. It was grey and twisted and gnarled, the ugliest thing you ever saw, but there it was. A single, beautiful rose. It was as though the Maker stretched out His hand to say, ‘even in the midst of this darkness, there is hope and beauty. Have faith.’”

“Light shines brightest in the dark,” Daylen said. “A little hope goes a long way. And this made you want to help me?”

“In my dream, I fell. Or…or maybe I jumped,” Leliana went on. “I’d do anything to stop the Blight. I know that we can do it. There are so many good things in the Maker’s world. How can I sit by while the Blight devours everything?” Daylen’s mouth twitched, and he ducked his head, trying to hide a smile. “You _promised_ you wouldn’t make fun.”

“I’m not making fun, I swear,” Daylen protested. “I’m just remembering that I said something similar to Duncan. I did basically volunteer for this.”

“You told me Duncan conscripted you,” Alistair said.

“I said he invoked the Right of Conscription,” Daylen replied. “I offered to join the Wardens almost right after I met Duncan. I didn’t become a Warden-recruit until hours later, when he invoked the Right to keep me from getting strung up by the Circle. If memory serves, I said ‘if I can help, I have the responsibility to help,’ or something like that.”

“Well, now I _know_ you’re crazy,” Alistair said flatly. “Sure, I was conscripted, but you signed up for this madness willingly!”

Daylen pitched a stick at him. “Hush, you.” Cupcake ran by, bringing the stick back. “Oh, look what I started.”

“So what’s the plan?” Leliana asked as Daylen tossed the stick again.

“Once Zevran and Sten wake up, they, you, Alistair, and I are going to take care of things. Shale is too big to go unnoticed, Wynne can’t move fast enough to keep up in a pitched fight, and I don’t want Cupcake in that fight. She’s not going to go quietly.”

“And how many of us do you see coming out of this alive?” Alistair asked pointedly as Sten emerged from his tent.

Daylen glanced over at him as the Qunari strapped on the enchanted plate armor they had salvaged for him. “All of us. What, you think this is unnecessary?”

“A bit, yes,” Alistair replied.

“I am curious, myself,” Leliana added. “You…have kept a lot of this quiet.”

Alistair nodded emphatically “And I feel like you’re leading us into a fight that might just get us killed because you’re being led around by your-” He paused and coughed. “I just don’t think we have any business going after her.”

“Just like we didn’t have any business going after Marjolaine,” Daylen shot back. “Or finding Goldanna. Or saving Arl Eamon’s son. Or any of the other side-trips we’ve made. I know you don’t like Morrigan,” he looked over at Leliana, “neither of you do. But she’s part of the team. So we support her. And if either of you want to back out, just say so.  I’ll do it alone if I have to.”

“You were there for me,” Leliana declared. “I will not let you down.”

Daylen looked over at Alistair. “Yes, yes, you got me, you’re right,” Alistair groused. “You’re right. Don’t you ever get tired of that?”

“Of course I do,” Daylen replied. “You think I’m eager to do this? The fight with Uldred will probably be nothing compared to this. We’re fighting an abomination that is literally legendary.”

“But it needs doing,” Leliana said quietly.

“Some people just need assassinating,” Zevran commented, crawling out of his tent.

Alistair and Leliana jumped slightly, but Daylen simply grinned. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to know we have a fight ahead of us,” the assassin said, tugging on his leather cuirass and fastening the buckles. “Who are we after?”

“Morrigan’s mother,” Alistair grumbled.

Zevran paused halfway through strapping on one of his bracers. “As in-”

“Yes,” Alistair said.

The assassin waited a moment longer, but Alistair didn’t continue. “But isn’t she-”

“Yes,” Leliana went on.

Zevran looked at her incredulously. “You mean we’re going to fight-”

“Oh, my, yes,” Daylen finished with a nod.

“Ah,” Zevran said. “Well, shit.”

—ROTG—

Alistair gasped for air, coughing violently. Daylen wrapped an arm around his midsection, hauling him clear and laying him flat on his back. “Come on, breathe,” Daylen urged, tugging the warrior’s helmet off.

Alistair coughed again, rolling onto his side and hacking out swamp water. “What a lovely place,” he rasped, pushing himself up onto all fours, spitting out another bit of water. “I may come back here and build a house after the Blight.”

“Lesson learned,” Zevran commented. “Watch your step.”

Daylen hooked a hand under Alistair’s armpit, pulling the man to his feet. “You all right?”

Alistair nodded, wiping at his face. “Felt I could use a bath. It’s quite refreshing, everyone should do it.”

“Maybe later,” Zevran replied. “Be careful, everyone. This mist is…not natural.”

“Was like this the last time, too. From what I’m told, it’s always this way,” Daylen murmured, prodding at the ground ahead with his staff. When he heard a splash, he nodded, stepping to the side and feeling out the path. “There’s some sort of a legend to it.”

“The legend says,” Leliana broke off with a yelp as her boot slid across a wet rock, nearly spilling into the swamp herself before Sten’s hand wrapped around her upper arm, hauling her back. “Never mind. Do you think this could be her work?”

“Doubt it, but if she has the same shapeshifting abilities her daughter has, any of the animals around here could be her,” Daylen replied. “So stay alert.”

“If she’s watching us, what’s to say that she’ll stick around?” Alistair asked, shaking out a damp boot. “Wouldn’t she just leave?”

“It’s possible that she might just leave,” Daylen admitted. “It’s also possible that she might not know why we’re here. But Morrigan told me that whenever the Templars came looking, they wouldn’t just run. They’d kill them all first. _Then_ they’d move.”

“Oh, that’s comforting,” Leliana said.

“How far are we?” Zevran asked.

Daylen pulled out the hand-drawn map Morrigan had made, glancing around. “We’re farther west than I would like.”

“Is that a problem?” Leliana asked.

Alistair looked over at her, his face grim. “We get too far west, we hit Ostagar. Not a place we want to be without everyone along to help out.” He nudged Daylen. “You recognize this place, don’t you?”

Daylen nodded. “The wrecked Grey Warden outpost isn’t far from here. We’re already on the trail Morrigan lead us on to the hut, that first time.” He looked around at his companions. “One thing, before we get there. This is dangerous, yes. But nobody dies for this. Be careful, all right? Going in alive, coming out the same way. That clear?” Everybody agreed, and Daylen nodded. “Come on. We’re close.”

—ROTG—

“This is it,” Daylen murmured, crouching on the overlook and peering down at Flemeth’s hut.

Alistair squinted, kneeling next to Daylen. “Is it just me, or does somehow it look more run-down than the last time we were here?”

“Pretty sure it’s just you,” Daylen replied.

“One way in, one way out,” Zevran commented, surveying the area. “No way to hide. A good choice for a defensible location.”

“I’m sure she’ll be very glad that you approve,” Leliana snarked. “But that poses the problem of how we get to her.”

“There’s a bigger problem,” Daylen said. “We’re in real trouble.”

“What makes you say that?” Leliana asked.

“Because she can see us.”

Alistair looked over in surprise. “How are you sure?”

“Because she’s _waving_ at us,” Daylen pointed out, gesturing down at the hut. The others looked down, seeing Flemeth standing in a clearing near her hut and giving the party a jaunty wave. “No point in hiding. Come on.”

“And so you return,” Flemeth said as they approached, clearly having expected them. “Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, wouldn’t you say?”

“Quite,” Daylen replied. “We learned your dirty little secret, Flemeth.”

Flemeth laughed. Daylen shivered involuntarily, a deep sense of dread sinking into the pit of his stomach. “Which one, I wonder?” Flemeth asked. “What has Morrigan told you, hmm? What little plan has she hatched this time?”

“Well, I was feeling a lot more confident before you said that, but in this case, she knows how you extend your unnatural lifespan.”

“That she does,” Flemeth replied. “The question is, do you?” Before Daylen could respond, she went on. “Ah, but it is an old, old story. One that Flemeth has heard before, and even told. Let us skip right to the ending, shall we? Do you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids? Or does the tale take a different turn?”

Daylen did his best impression of Sten. “That depends on what that different turn would entail.”

“Morrigan wishes my grimoire? Take it as a trophy. Tell her I am slain.”

“And you think she would believe that?” Daylen asked. “What happens to you?”

“I go,” Flemeth said softly. “Perhaps I surprise Morrigan one day…or I may simply watch. It would be interesting to see what she does with her freedom. Enlightening, even. Would you give an old woman that?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” Daylen replied. “You saved my life, yes. But I also swore I would protect her. And I will. Even from you, if that’s what it takes. And you’re threatening her.”

“A statement that displays surprising honor, but an ignorance of the greater situation,” Flemeth said cryptically. “A shame. What will it be, then?”

Daylen shrugged. “I guess this is the part where we fight to the death?”

“It is a dance poor Flemeth knows well,” the witch replied. “Let us see if she remembers the steps. Come. She will earn what she takes. I’d have it no other way.” There was a blinding flash, and Flemeth’s form flowed, growing and shifting until she loomed over the group.

Arms became forelegs. Legs bent, and wings sprouted, spreading wide as a neck lengthened and thickened, spikes erupting along the back.

When the glow faded, Flemeth was gone. A High Dragon stood in her place.

Daylen looked up at the new form Flemeth had taken. “I immediately regret this decision.”

“Now you think things through?” Alistair hollered as the party scattered, a gout of flame scorching the grass where they had been standing a moment before.

“Keep moving!” Daylen ordered, ducking a swipe of the dragon’s tail and lobbing a blob of grease, slicking down the grass beneath Flemeth’s forelegs. The dragon slipped, and Daylen followed up with a stream of ice, freezing Flemeth’s belly to the ground as the others charged, Leliana falling back and peppering the dragon’s face and snout with arrows.

Zevran reached her first, skidding on his knees under Flemeth’s snapping jaws and carving twin slices across the dragon’s neck, kicking off the grass on the other side and running forward.

Sten’s sword revolved in his hands, the warrior bringing the blade down across the dragon’s face and reducing one of its eyes to a sloppy mess. Flemeth roared in pain, snapping at Sten, but the Qunari was already gone, moving across the dragon’s blinded side and joining Alistair, who nodded to him. Both warriors stabbed through Flemeth’s wing, ripping through the membrane and shredding the vulnerable flesh.

By this point, Zevran and Daylen had regrouped on the dragon’s other side, Daylen signaling to the assassin and running forward was Zevran slammed both blades into the dragon’s other wing, crippling the dragon. Daylen was moving forward to blind the beast’s other eye when Flemeth finally ripped free of the ground and kicked Alistair across the clearing. Daylen paused, barely missing a strike from Flemeth’s injured wing and casting more grease, whistling sharply to Zevran and pointing to Alistair. “Sten, fall back!”

Flemeth turned, spitting a stream of dragonfire at him. The mage hit the ground with a yelped “Not again!” and crawled out of the way, the flames licking past his back as he scrambled away.  Flemeth twisted around, her jaws snapped at him, and Daylen smacked her across the nose with his staff, letting loose a burst of lightning on impact before twirling his staff, flames igniting the grease splattered across the grass. A wall of flame erupted between the dragon and himself, and Daylen turned, spotting Alistair cradling a broken arm, his face pale and sweaty. Daylen began preparing a healing spell when Flemeth exploded from out of the inferno, her jaws closing around Daylen’s leg.

The dragon’s teeth didn’t penetrate his hardened skin, but she rolled her neck back and forth, Daylen’s leg snapping with a sickening crack. Another of Leliana’s arrows slammed into Flemeth’s snout and she flung the Warden across the clearing as he screamed in agony, the Warden slamming against the side of the hut and sliding to the ground, dazed.[1]

Leliana drew another arrow, the fletchings brushing past her cheek. “Maker, guide my hand…” Flemeth was inhaling to expel fire when Leliana’s arrow buried itself in her other eye. The dragonfire went wide, and Sten dashed back in, hacking at the dragon’s back leg.

Zevran rolled Daylen over, the mage gasping for breath. “Where’s Alistair,” the Warden rasped as Sten finished hamstringing the dragon. Zevran pointed, and Daylen groped for his staff, gritting his teeth and casting. Alistair bellowed in pain as his bones realigned, and the warrior slowly pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his sword and charging back into the fray. “Go,” Daylen ordered, pushing himself to a sitting position. “My leg’s broken, I’ll fight from here.”

Zevran rejoined the fight just in time to slide past another blast of dragonfire, the flesh of his arm blistering under the searing heat. Zevran flinched, but pushed forward, ducking as a stream of lightning arched over his shoulder, making the dragon thrash and spasm on impact. Alistair and Sten were hacking away at Flemeth, another of Leliana’s arrows sinking into the dragon’s throat as Zevran began digging into a gash in the dragon’s hide, sawing at the exposed muscle.

Daylen ducked as Sten was flung past him, the warrior smashing through the wooden door of Flemeth’s hut. The Qunari staggered back out, growling as he shifted a dislocated shoulder back into place. Daylen slammed his staff on the ground, lightning arcing from the top of his staff and striking Flemeth again, the dragon’s hide smoking under the assault as Alistair scored a hit behind the creature’s head, opening a fresh wound.

Daylen groped at his bandolier, finding nothing but shattered glass and spilled lyrium, and cursed quietly, aiming carefully. “Come on,” he mumbled, trying to steady his breathing. “Come on…” Alistair dodged as Flemeth lashed out blindly, and Daylen cast, a lump of sharpened stone punching into the wound Alistair had opened and exiting the other side of Flemeth’s neck, ripping a hole clear through the dragon’s throat.

Flemeth collapsed, air gurgling through her ruined throat as Alistair charged for the killing blow, blood soaking the grass beneath their feet. Planting a boot on the dragon’s snout, Alistair rammed his sword through the dragon’s ruined eye up to the hilt, twisting the blade until the dragon stopped thrashing. Ripping the blade free, Alistair rammed it through the other eye, jiggling the blade around and making sure the dragon was properly dead.

Wiping the blade clean, Alistair sheathed his sword, ignoring the smell of burnt hair as he approached the Warden. “Well, that's a disgusting job taken care of,” Alistair said. “One less problem to worry about.”

Daylen forced a pained smile as he looked up at Alistair. “Yeah, no kidding. My leg's broken, my potions are smashed, and I'm out of mana, so we'll have to get me back to the camp so Wynne can fix me up.”

“Maybe we can rig up some sort of stretcher,” Leliana offered. “There must be something around here we can use.”

“First things first,” Daylen ordered. “Get in that hut, dig around for the grimoire. Might as well get what we came for.”

The rogue hesitated. “Are you sure you want to give it to Morrigan?”

“Yes, of course I am!” Daylen snapped. “We just killed Flemeth, I didn't drag us all the way out here just to do that!”

Leliana flinched at his words. “I...all right.”

“Daylen, take it easy,” Alistair said quietly as the archer entered the hut through the shattered door. “The fight's over.”

“Let's just get out of here. Hunt around for some long branches or something, but don't go too far. There may be something else about that wants to chew on me.” Alistair nodded, striding off into the forest. There was a pregnant pause as Zevran glared at Daylen. “And what's wrong with you?”

“It does little good to lie to your companions, Warden,” Zevran replied coldly.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Daylen said evasively.

Zevran's dagger flashed as it cut a slice down Daylen's calf. The Warden flinched at the sight, but remained still.

“I've seen a broken back before,” Zevran said quietly. “What do you still have control over?”

Daylen stared at him a moment longer. “I can't feel my legs,” he finally whispered.

—ROTG—

_Flemeth  
“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe.”_

_Ages ago, legend says Bann Conobar took to wife a beautiful young woman who harbored a secret talent for magic: Flemeth of Highever. And for a time they lived happily, until the arrival of a young poet, Osen, who captured the lady's heart with his verse._

_They turned to the Chasind tribes for help and hid from Conobar's wrath in the Wilds, until word came to them that Conobar lay dying: His last wish was to see Flemeth's face one final time._

_The lovers returned, but it was a trap. Conobar killed Osen, and imprisoned Flemeth in the highest tower of the castle. In grief and rage, Flemeth worked a spell to summon a spirit into this world to wreak vengeance upon her husband. Vengeance, she received, but not as she planned. The spirit took possession of her, turning Flemeth into an abomination. A twisted, maddened creature, she slaughtered Conobar and all his men, and fled back into the Wilds._

_For a hundred years, Flemeth plotted, stealing men from the Chasind to sire monstrous daughters: Horrific things that could kill a man with fear. These Korcari witches led an army of Chasind from the Wilds to strike at the Alamarri tribes. They were defeated by the hero Cormac, and all the witches burned, so they say, but even now the Wilders whisper that Flemeth lives on in the marsh, and she and her daughters steal those men who come too near._

_Morrigan's mother saved the last Grey Wardens from death at the top of the Tower of Ishal, but just who, or what, Flemeth truly is, is a mystery._

_She was slain at Morrigan's behest. At least apparently..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Don't worry, nobody dies in this story, they just get really big boo-boos! [ return to text ]


	21. Return to Ostagar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group addresses the recent injury, and Ostagar stirs up some old ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_Ostagar  
Representing the furthest point of encroachment by the ancient Tevinter Imperium into the barbarian lands of the southeast, the fortress of Ostagar was once one of the most important defensive holdings south of the Waking Sea. It stood at the edge of the Korcari Wilds watching for any signs of invasion by the barbarians known today as the Chasind wilders. Straddling a narrow pass in the hills, the fortress needed to be by-passed to reach the fertile lowlands to the north and proved to be exceedingly difficult for the wilders to attack because of its naturally defensible position._

_Like most imperial holdings in the south, Ostagar was abandoned after Tevinter's collapse during the first Blight. It was successfully sacked by the Chasind wilders and then, as the Chasind threat dwindled following the creation of the modern Ferelden nation, fell to ruin completely._

_It has remained unmanned for four centuries, though most of the walls still stand--as does the tall Tower of Ishal, named after the great archon that ordered its construction. Ostagar remains a testament to the magical power of the Imperium that created it._

_\--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

—ROTG—

Wynne and Morrigan were both pacing nervously when Cupcake perked up the camp, whining as Leliana re-entered the camp. “Oh, Maker,” Wynne breathed as Sten and Alistair appeared through the trees, carrying the stretcher between them.

“His leg's broken,” Alistair reported as the two warriors set their load down. “Flemeth is dead, but she didn't go easily.”

“She took the form of a great dragon, and he ran out of mana and could not heal himself,” Leliana added. “Luckily the rest of us were not seriously injured.”

“He's lying,” Zevran broke in, bringing up the rear. “His back is broken.”

Morrigan's head snapped around. “ _What?_ ” The others turned on Daylen, who was glaring balefully at Zevran. “Is this true?”

“She picked me up, broke my leg in her jaws, and then flung me into the side of the hut,” Daylen said quietly. “I haven't been able to feel my legs since.”

“We may be able to heal it,” Wynne replied. “But it will not be easy.”

“I _know_ ,” Daylen rasped, glaring at her. “But I'm out of mana and it's hard to heal a wound when you can't see or feel what you're doing. Between the two of us, we can do it, although I'll probably be out of action for days, if not longer.”

Wynne nodded, gathering a few lyrium potions and passing one to Daylen as she knelt, the azure light of healing magic flaring from her hands as she began her work. The Warden immediately downed the potion, sighing quietly as the rush of fresh mana surged through his system.[1]

“When you said not to underestimate Flemeth,” Daylen said as Morrigan crouched next to him, “you could have mentioned the fact that she could shapeshift into _a great bloody fuck-off dragon_.”

“I knew not what she would do to fight you,” Morrigan protested. “I did not know she could even do that!”

Daylen sighed. “I know. I'm sorry. You would have told me, had you known. But having your opponent pull a dragon out of their arse is not a welcome surprise.” He flinched as Wynne prodded at his side, glaring at the enchanter. “That's still tender!”

“How did you run out of mana?” Wynne asked. “You took several lyrium potions with you. Very potent ones, at that.”

Daylen looked sheepish. “When I hit the side of the hut, I...may have landed on my bandolier. They shattered. And what mana I had left after the battle, I used to heal the others.”

“You are more important,” Morrigan insisted.

Daylen shook his head. “No,” he said firmly. “I'm not. Nobody is expendable, nobody is 'more important' than anyone else. Even from a purely pragmatic standpoint, I couldn't heal all of them _and_ myself, I wasn't sure how much mana healing myself would take, and I couldn't carry everyone back to the camp alone.”

“Nonetheless, you should not endanger yourself unnecessarily,” Morrigan pressed. “Even on my behalf.”

Daylen met her eyes, his gaze holding no trace of reproach. “I'd do it again.” Wynne frowned, but the other two mages ignored her. “Without hesitating.”

“Why?” Morrigan asked incredulously.

“I made a promise,” Daylen replied, not looking away.

Morrigan held their gaze a few moments longer, before standing and turning away. “You are a fool.”

“Never denied that,” Daylen said with a weak grin, and Morrigan gave a noise of disgust.

“You could show a little gratitude,” Wynne snapped.

“He should not risk his life on such a thing!” Morrigan shot back. “And I care not what _you_ think. You are as foolish as he is.”

“Think what you will, Morrigan.”

Daylen cleared his throat. “As fascinating as all this is, perhaps we should focus on the task at hand?” Morrigan grumbled, but threw up her hands and left. “Wynne, there's something I…” The mage looked up at her, his eyes wide. “I'm sorry. About yesterday. I shouldn't…” He shook his head. “I shouldn't have snapped at you like that.”

“You think I don't doubt?” Wynne asked. “Were you not paying attention back at the Gauntlet?”

Daylen slowly closed his eyes, nodding. “I am sorry, Wynne. It won’t happen again. Can we fix this?”

“I'm not done with my examination,” the woman replied. After a few moments, her brow furrowed. “Your spine is intact.”

“Then why can't I feel my legs?” Daylen asked pointedly.

“Because your _pelvis_ is broken in several places, including near where it meets your spine.”

Daylen squinted a moment in thought, before nodding. “Well, that would do it.”

“This will be easier to heal,” Wynne said primly. “But there will be problems.”

“Those being?”

“The healed bone will be relatively brittle, although your defensive spells should be sufficient to protect you in battle. However, you will need to abstain from...certain strenuous activities...for several weeks,” Wynne replied. “I'm sure you will be able to control your impulses, however.”

A horrible, keening cry rose over the entire camp as Daylen howled in despair.

—ROTG—

An hour later, Daylen stood slowly, teetering back and forth as he slowly regained his balance.

“You all right?” Alistair asked. Daylen's response was to fall flat on his face. “Maybe you should sit for a bit.”

“Sod that,” Daylen growled, sitting up and spitting out dirt. “Won't do any good to just sit around.” Pushing himself to his feet, he took two unsteady steps, stumbling against Alistair for a moment. “Blast it!” He looked up at the warrior's chest for a moment. “Goodness, you're like hammered steel.” The warrior blushed, and Daylen coughed. “Sorry. Didn't mean to grope.” Accepting his staff back from Wynne, Daylen picked up his satchel and staggered over towards Morrigan.

“Good to see you upright again,” the witch remarked as he approached.

“I am not nearly as drunk as I appear to be,” Daylen insisted, leaning on his staff as he stumbled again. “The healing took more out of me than I anticipated, and my legs and I do not appear to be completely back on speaking terms yet.”

“Regardless, 'tis a welcome sight.”

“Flemeth is dead,” Daylen said softly. “You’re free.”

“I barely dared hope ‘twas even possible,” Morrigan admitted. “And the real grimoire? Did you find it?”

The Warden reached into his satchel, tugging out their prize. “Her true grimoire, delivered as asked,” Daylen said proudly, hefting the heavy book. The grimoire was old, but clearly lovingly cared for, bound in leather that didn’t appear to come from a cow, sheep, or horse. Daylen caught a whiff of woodsmoke and herbs as he held it out for Morrigan, the firelight catching the intricate stitching on the cover, the design of a leafless tree stark against the leather.

Morrigan took it with something approaching reverence in her expression. “And so here it is. Fantastic. I…thank you, for helping me, Daylen. No one has ever…” she paused, and cleared her throat. “Thank you. Was it difficult?”

“Well, besides the giant angry dragon that nearly broke my back?” Daylen shrugged. “We all made it out with the same number of limbs, so I'm going to count that as a win.”

“You should not be so cavalier about your life,” Morrigan admonished. “You are vital to this effort, after all.”

“Morrigan,” Daylen said quietly, cupping the witch's cheek and looking her square in the eyes. “I will always protect you. No matter the cost.”

“I…you should not be so…” Morrigan's face flushed, and Daylen fought to avoid smiling. “You have no idea what might happen in the days to come, to make such promises.”

“No, I don't,” Daylen admitted. “And isn't that great? I spent years thinking that I would know exactly how the rest of my life would go. This uncertainty is a freedom I never dared hope for.”

“I want you to know that while I may not always prove…worthy…of your friendship, I will always value it.”

“And I value yours,” Daylen said sincerely. “There was something else, that we found in the hut.” Daylen pulled a bundle from his satchel, holding it out to Morrigan. “They seemed similar to your normal robes, but I examined them more closely and found a few…interesting additions.”

Morrigan made no move to take the bundle. “Such as?”

“Well, it should amplify your magic, and there does seem to be more leather in the mix than your current set, and if I understand some of the spellwork, it should amplify your frost magic. But I also noticed that the runes may sap your will.”

Morrigan nodded. “I expected as much. ‘Twould be a welcome home present from Flemeth, designed to ease her possession of me.” She took the robes, shaking them out and examining them. “They are rather fetching. But I will have to change some of the spellwork to eliminate the negative effects before they are fit to wear.”

Daylen grunted in agreement. “You should. You are a willful one, which I find _very_ attractive, by the way.” Morrigan smirked, and Daylen gave her a weak grin as his legs wavered again. “But if you can fix it, there’s no reason to make things difficult for yourself.”

“Too right,” Morrigan murmured. “Thank you again, Daylen.”

The Warden found Zevran with Leliana a fair distance from the fire, the two rogues sparring with daggers. “I wanted to apologize, Daylen,” the elf said in greeting as the Warden approached, dodging and sweeping one of Leliana’s daggers out of her hand. “I…should have let you tell them.”

Daylen shook his head. “You did the right thing. Without a healer of Wynne’s skill on hand, that injury could easily have put me out of action for good. You didn’t know any better.”

“But I should have trusted your judgment,” the elf insisted.

“The judgment of someone with a broken spine who is afraid for their life is suspect at best,” Daylen pointed out. “I got lucky. _Very_ lucky. My spine wasn’t broken, and I’m still in fighting shape.”

Zevran knocked the other blade from Leliana’s hand, and the bard muttered something rude about Zevran’s parentage and sexual proclivities under her breath, before stalking off. The elf shrugged. “Perhaps you should speak with her. She seemed shaken by your injury.” Daylen nodded his thanks at the assassin’s suggestion and followed Leliana, finding her sorting through some recovered arrows.

“You seem a trifle testy,” Daylen commented as Leliana picked out an arrow with damaged fletchings.

The bard sighed. “I am, yes. I have lost friends in the past, as you know. But never have I had a friend so badly injured. Not right in front of me, not so suddenly. You have been a true friend to me, Daylen, and I…I worry about you.”

Daylen smiled faintly, scuffing the ground with his boot. “Aww, Leliana, I didn’t know you cared.” Leliana scowled, pitching a broken arrowhead at him. “All right! All right! Don’t hit! Use your words!”

“Would you be careful?” Leliana asked, peering down the length of a slightly warped arrow and setting it aside. “I have no desire to bury any more of my friends.”

“I will,” Daylen promised. “No more fighting abominations that turn into giant fuck-off dragons. From now on I’ll stick to things like smaller fuck-off dragons, darkspawn, and bandits.”

“Good enough,” Leliana said. “I’m sure Morrigan would be happy to hear that as well.”

“She did tell me not to risk myself,” Daylen admitted.

“She’s a lucky girl, Morrigan,” the bard mused.

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “How is she lucky?”

“She caught your eye. Though, looking at her, it is not difficult to see why.”

Daylen coughed delicately. “Well, she is very beautiful, yes, but she’s…interesting, once you get to know her. Intelligent, passionate, and I’ll admit, it’s a large point in her favor that she can fight as well as she does.”

“Well, I want you to know I am happy for you,” Leliana said.

“Er…Leliana,” Daylen began, making a connection he hadn’t spotted before. “Not that I’m suggesting anything, I’m quite happy with Morrigan, but…is this your way of saying that you have feelings for me?”

“No. Well, once, perhaps I did,” Leliana admitted. “You have been a wonderful friend, nothing but compassionate, and you are rather cute at that. But I would never stand in the way of your happiness, even with her.”

Daylen let out a breath. “All right. Good. Because you’re very attractive, and all, but the last red-headed Chantry sister I got involved with got me mixed up with a blood mage and the Grey Wardens. It was kind of a mess, sort of put me off redheads.” Leliana snorted out a giggle, and Daylen grinned. “But you’re a good friend, Leliana.”

“I am truly glad that you let me come along,” Leliana said. “I was sad to leave the Chantry, but it’s not so bad. Look, now I have new friends, a new family…in spite of it all, life…life is good.”

“What will you do, when this is all over?”

“I honestly have not given it a lot of thought,” Leliana replied. “We’ve traveled far and wide. Does it need to end?”

Daylen shrugged. “Well, I would like to see the world too, but I’m a Grey Warden. I have a responsibility.”

“You could do both, if you wanted,” Leliana pointed out. “There’s so much out there. Adventures to be had, stories to be told. I want to be a part of it all. I might need some company, and you’re not too irritating.” Daylen pouted, and she winked. “You’re welcome to come along if you’d like.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”

—ROTG—

Daylen stepped back as the genlock swung an axe at him, batting the weapon out of its hands with his staff. Twirling the weapon and braining the genlock, Daylen grabbed it by the skull and fried its head with a burst of lightning, dropping the corpse. Alistair jiggled his sword, trying to work it free of a dead hurlock’s ribcage as Sten wiped down his greatsword.

“That all of them?” Daylen asked as Alistair finally freed his blade.

“Not quite,” Alistair replied, stabbing a critically wounded genlock lying on the ground that had had both hamstrings and its throat slashed. The darkspawn gurgled, and Alistair stabbed it twice more, making sure the genlock was dead. “Now that’s all of them.”

“Is this Ostagar?” Leliana asked. Daylen nodded, looking out at the snow-covered ruins. “How much of this was done by the darkspawn?”

“Less than you’d think,” Alistair said, his eyes dark. “Something about returning here makes me feel old, Wynne.”

The enchanter arched an eyebrow, pulling her cloak tighter around herself against the chill in the air. “And what exactly are you implying, Alistair?”

The warrior’s eyes widened as he realized he had just jumped onto the proverbial thin ice. “What? Nothing! I just thought…”

“You just thought I might be an expert at feeling old and could share some sage advice?” Wynne asked.

Alistair sighed. “I just mean that I was a different person then. I believed him, you know? That it would be a glorious battle. That we’d _win_.”

“I did too,” Wynne said softly. “We were all a little bit younger the last time we were here.”

Daylen was about to agree when the corner of Alistair’s mouth crooked up. “Well, not you. You’ve always been old.”

“With lip like that, son, you’ll be lucky if you live to be half my age,” Wynne replied.

“That way,” Daylen said quietly, pointing off to their left. “The war council was up that way. And stay alert. There’s more darkspawn around.”

Another group of darkspawn was waiting for them across the ruined hall from the half-smashed table, falling quickly to blades and magic. Daylen turned away from the group of dead darkspawn, slowly running a hand over the edge of the table. “I will never understand why there was a Revered Mother at the War Council,” Daylen said. “A pointless, even detrimental assignment if there ever was one. She kept trying to interfere with things, and prevented the mages that were there from being properly used.”

Zevran glanced over, slinging a longbow over his shoulder. “Would it have made that much difference?”

“Five mages, properly supported, could have destroyed perhaps twenty or thirty times their number. There were twenty mages at Ostagar, not counting myself, all at the Enchanter or Senior Enchanter level. It could have turned the tide.”

“We were kept from the worst of the battle,” Wynne explained. “Our orders were not to engage the darkspawn in force. We were watched intently by the Templars, and we were barely allowed to help out at all.”

Zevran’s face twisted in confusion. “Why bring you if they didn’t intend to use you?”

“Because when you have an idiot with no combat experience or knowledge of how to fight a battle on your war council, you wind up making stupid decisions,” Daylen spat. “What a waste.”

“Daylen,” Alistair called, crouching over a dead hurlock. “Look at this.” He held a pair of heavy greaves aloft as the others approached. The ornate etchings that decorated the greaves were inlaid with gold, and Daylen recognized the boots as Cailan’s. “They were his.”

“Alistair, are you all right?” Wynne asked.

“I don’t know,” Alistair admitted. “It just feels wrong to find these here, pawed over by darkspawn, and thick with their rot.”

“I know,” Wynne said softly. “I feel it, too. But he is not the first king to ever fall in battle, or even the first to fall to the darkspawn.”

“I know,” Alistair sighed. “But this wound cuts deeper.”

“And it will bleed longer, but we must keep moving. No doubt the darkspawn are eager to give us plenty more reasons to mourn.”

The group headed up the ramp to the old temple where the Joining had taken place. Daylen wiped some snow aside, spotting the dark stain where Jory had bled out. “This was where I became a Warden,” Daylen said softly, touching the spot where he had collapsed. “My life really has taken a turn for the odd since I left the Circle.” He stood, walking over towards where Daveth had fallen when he succumbed to the Taint. “Daveth died here.”

“Who was Daveth?” Zevran asked.

“Another Warden recruit,” Alistair explained as Daylen stared at the ground, lost in his memories. “A cutpurse Duncan conscripted out of the noose. A good fellow, from what I saw. He never hesitated, never faltered.”

“Er, Daylen,” Leliana spoke up, digging around in the snow. “What is this?” She held up a silver chalice that had dark stains around the rim.

Daylen’s eyes bugged out. “Maker, Alistair, did Duncan just leave that here?”

“I guess he planned to come back to get it?” Alistair offered weakly.

“What is this thing?” Leliana asked again, holding it at arm’s length. “Should I not touch it?”

“Just don’t drink from it,” Alistair said. “That’s the Joining Chalice.” The two Wardens rinsed the chalice off with some melted snow, before Daylen stored it in his satchel.

“That buried key should be around here someplace,” Daylen said as they circled down towards the wreckage of the blacksmith and quartermaster’s tents. Daylen checked the slightly charred map Elric had drawn for him and dug around in a pile of stones, finding the thin brass key and tossing it to Alistair. The warrior caught it as both Wardens perked up, spotting more darkspawn heading their way.

“That’s Cailan’s shield,” Alistair snarled as a hurlock vanguard charged. “ _You don’t get to carry that_!” The others tore into the other darkspawn, hacking and slashing at the tainted creatures as Alistair engaged the vanguard, furiously deflecting its blows and assaulting it with several teeth-rattling blows from his shield. The hurlock managed to knock Alistair’s sword from his hand, and the warrior lashed out, kicking the darkspawn in the knee, knocking it back with a bash from his kite shield, and bringing the point of the shield down onto the hurlock’s skull with both hands. The blow caved the darkspawn’s helmet in, crushing the creature’s skull and dropping it.

“You all right?” Daylen asked quietly as Alistair stood over the dead hurlock, panting.

“Feel better, now that I’ve let some of my feelings out,” Alistair responded, checking his shield for damage. “You see where my sword landed?” Leliana fished the weapon out of the snow and passed it over, and Alistair sheathed the blade as Daylen wiped Cailan’s shield clean and slung it over his shoulder.

The two Wardens approached the blackened pit where Duncan had kept a fire going each night, the site covered in darkspawn offal and tainted idols. “They did their best to defile this place,” Daylen surmised. “They couldn’t even leave that alone.”

Alistair was staring at the pit, undisguised rage in his eyes. “I’m going to kill every last darkspawn.”

“I’ll help,” Daylen growled. “Come on. They aren’t going to hunt themselves down.”

The royal enclave was over here,” Wynne said. “The chest looks intact.”

Daylen looked to Alistair. “Get that chest open. I’ll keep an eye out.” Alistair quickly unlocked the chest, pulling out a bundle of documents that he passed over to Daylen. “Oh, boy,” Daylen said, skimming the letters. “We've got correspondence with Empress Celene here.” He looked at another note. “And now I regret arguing with Eamon.”

“Why?” Alistair asked, examining the letters Daylen passed back to him.

“Because Cailan anticipated his death,” Daylen replied, looking at the last note. “He left a note here. It claims you were Maric's son. His half-brother.”

Alistair let out a slow breath. “I'm not sure whether to be upset or relieved by that.”

“Both, I should think,” Daylen said. “There’s more, as well.” He glanced over at Alistair. 

“Is the sword in there?”

Alistair pulled a sheathed blade out of the chest, handing it over to Daylen. “You carry it. I don’t want it.”

“Suit yourself,” Daylen said, buckling the scabbard onto his belt, before drawing the sword, his staff in his off hand. “Dragonbone.” Daylen eyed the rippled blade, runes faintly glowing blue along its length. “Magnificent.”

“I could not trust someone who would leave such a blade behind,” Sten rumbled.

Zevran cleared his throat. “That is a sexy sword, and I must have it."

“No chance,” Daylen said. “I’m hanging on to this one. At least for now.”

“So it’s true!” Alistair gasped, looking at the letters. “He had convinced the forces of Orlais to ally against the darkspawn.” He showed Wynne the correspondence, and the enchanter’s eyes widened.

“Empress Celene was merely awaiting his response.”

Alistair grew bitter. “A response that never came, and now never will, thanks to Loghain’s treachery.”

“Never is a long time, Alistair,” Wynne replied. “Give it time and let cooler heads prevail. There will be peace between us yet.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Daylen chimed in, reading the letters. “Eamon was suggesting that Cailan divorce Anora, on the basis of her being barren.” Murmurs of shock spread among the companions and Daylen read on. “Celene mentions ‘a permanent alliance.’ Was Cailan going to marry Celene?”

“Would that be such a problem?” Wynne asked.

“It would be a scandal,” Daylen replied.

“Celene gained power by framing the previous Emperor for an assassination attempt on herself,” Leliana said. “She has no qualms with assassinating or executing anyone who stands in the way of her ambitions.”

“Not an uncommon practice,” Zevran added. “She would marry Cailan, unify the countries under Orlesian control, then have him assassinated to maintain sole power.”

“With that wedding, Orlais would reclaim all the territory they lost when Ferelden rebelled,” Daylen said. “What a mess.”

“Let us keep moving,” Morrigan urged, speaking for the first time since they had arrived.

It was a short walk to the bridge that crossed the valley where the disastrous battle had taken place, and Daylen paused at the beginning of the bridge, looking out over the valley. “It feels like it was so long ago.”

“It was dark, and raining,” Alistair remembered. “You were making fun of me for rattling with the rain hitting my armor, and then the horde emerged.”

“And I froze,” Daylen said quietly. “I’d never been so terrified.”

“Ogres were hurling rocks,” Alistair added. “They took out most of the ballistae that were set up.”

“You saved me when one of them got hit,” Daylen recalled. “We ran to the tower, and those two soldiers told us the tower had been taken.” He looked out across the bridge, and his eyes narrowed as he spotted a figure halfway across. “Sweet Andraste, what is that.”

“No,” Alistair whispered as they approached. “They didn’t. They wouldn’t. Not even the darkspawn.”

“Is that…him?” Zevran asked as they came even with the figure.

“This was King Cailan,” Daylen said. “They strung him up and left him. Maker, is there no decency left in the world?”

The dead king’s chest and ribs were badly crushed, and the corpse had been stripped and crudely staked out on a twisted mass of metal, blood staining the wounds, the structure, and the ground beneath. “What should we do with him?” Wynne asked tentatively.

“Get down!” Leliana shouted, drawing her bow as a fireball sailed past the party. Daylen drew his staff as he turned, firing a bolt of lightning in response before he even had a clear idea of what he was aiming at. A genlock emissary with a golden helmet that Daylen recognized as Cailan’s casually dodged the attack, before a cloud of bluish-black smoke swirled around it.

“Blight magic,” Daylen reported. “Be _careful_.” Lightning crackled around the darkspawn’s hands, and with a thunderclap, several half-frozen skeletons rose from the ground and charged.

“Behind us!” Leliana warned, drawing and loosing an arrow that speared a hurlock through the eye. The body had barely begun to keel over before it was roughly shoved aside by another darkspawn that met a messy end at the point of Sten’s blade. More darkspawn crowded in behind it, and the Qunari went to work, a flurry of strikes, crushing blows, and body-checks keeping the tainted creatures at bay.

“Wynne, Morrigan, watch our backs!” Daylen ordered. “Alistair, with me, push forward! We have to get off this bridge!” With two mages spraying ice and lightning behind them, the party pushed across the bridge in pursuit of the genlock necromancer, fighting towards the Tower of Ishal.

It was messy. The few surviving ballistae from the bridge had been moved by the darkspawn and set up in an ambush that the Warden’s party nearly walked into. Fireballs and slugs of stone destroyed the stolen siege engines before they could wreak havoc at close range, and a hurlock general lost a leg when the tightly-wound drawstring on one of the ballistae snapped with a deafening whipcrack.

When the party finally killed the last darkspawn, they were bloody and bruised, and Daylen called a break to heal their wounds and catch their breath as Alistair ripped Cailan’s golden breastplate from the corpse of the hurlock general. “He deserved better than this,” Alistair spat.

“They all did,” Daylen replied. “We don’t even know how many men were lost here. All we can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” Alistair said coldly as they approached the tower of Ishal. “I’ll see to it personally.”

The necromancer was waiting inside, and Daylen brought up a mage shield, a fireball dispersing against the barrier as more darkspawn charged. The group shredded through them, magic cutting past steel to cover the warriors and rogues as darkspawn charged and were promptly slaughtered.

When the group reached the staircase, Daylen nudged the door up, finding it barred, and glanced at the hole in the floor. “Looks like we’re going down.”

Alistair groaned. “Down the hole and into the deep. I don’t even want to imagine where that leads.”

Surprisingly enough, it led down. A previously sealed sub-basement to the tower had been excavated by the darkspawn, who had used it to swarm the tower and take the defenders by surprise. Corrupted spiders and darkspawn were waiting for them, and when the party exited the other end of the tunnel, they found themselves on the darkspawn’s side of the defensive fortifications in the valley.

“Well, that about settles the question of how they got into the tower,” Daylen muttered as they emerged into cold sunlight. “The defenders must have had no idea this way in was even there.” He glanced towards the defensive positions, recalling the volley of flaming arrows that had been fired at the oncoming horde. Darkspawn corpses were still scattered around the valley in random bunches and groups, and one massive pile that seemed to be centered around a single point. A dead ogre lay half-draped across a destroyed palisade, two blades sticking out of its chest.

“These were Duncan’s,” Alistair said quietly, examining the haft of the sword.

Then the ogre coughed, before drawing in a rattling breath and roaring. Alistair stumbled back as Daylen glanced around, spotting the genlock necromancer trying to resurrect more darkspawn. “Oh, I’ve had enough of that arse. You take the ogre. I’ve got him.”

Daylen charged the necromancer, trying to run past the ogre, only to have the staff ripped from his hand, the ogre snapping it in half almost casually before grabbing Daylen by the chest. It brought him up to its face, letting loose a deafening roar that became a cry of pain as Alistair rammed his sword into the ogre’s belly with a defiant bellow. Daylen hit the ground hard, groaning in pain as he fumbled for the weapons he had picked up, Maric’s blade leaving the scabbard and cleaving through the meat of the ogre’s thigh. “Go!” Alistair shouted. “I’ve got this!”

The rest of the party engaged more half-dismembered and resurrected darkspawn as Daylen charged the necromancer again, bearing a fireball on Cailan’s shield. Shale crushed a hurlock’s head, before using the corpse as a makeshift club to batter several more darkspawn to death. Wynne and Morrigan traded off bursts of primal magic, ripping holes in the pack of darkspawn as Sten and Zevran’s blades dropped the resurrected beasts like sheaves of wheat. Leliana’s arrows claimed several darkspawn as Alistair hamstrung the ogre, dropping his sword and ripping Duncan’s longsword from the ogre’s chest, before stabbing it up under the middle of the ogre’s ribs and slicing the beast’s heart in two. The creature dropped, once again dead, and Alistair reclaimed Duncan’s dagger as well before turning to assist his companions in the fight.

Daylen, for his part, was busily hacking the genlock necromancer into pieces small enough to play catch with. Maric’s blade was still sharp despite its age and long stretch without maintenance in the arms chest, and the Warden put it to good use, finishing the necromancer with a swift beheading and reclaiming Cailan’s ornate helmet. The remaining resurrected darkspawn dropped as the magic animating them ceased, and Daylen kicked the genlock’s corpse for good measure.

Wynne sighed as the party regrouped. “It has been a long day,” she said quietly. “By the lines around your eyes, I dare say you look as old as me.”

Alistair smiled faintly. “And if I may say so, milady, you appear to be getting younger by the day.”

Wynne smirked at him. “Be careful who you flirt with, young man. When you wake up beside me tomorrow morning I'll be back to reminding you of your grandmother.”

Alistair paused, deeply confused. “Beside you?”

Wynne nodded. “You heard what I said. It would not be the first time I woke to a younger man in my bed.”

Alistair’s jaw dropped, and he looked to Daylen for help. The Warden held up his hands, shook his head, and slowly backed away. “Are all women this evil and conniving when they grow old?”

“Just me, my dear,” Wynne chuckled. “Just me.”

“We should do something about Cailan’s corpse,” Daylen said quietly. “Nobody should be left like that. Then we’ll take whatever other salvage we can and return to Redcliffe.”

The group made their way back through the tunnels and the tower basement, returning to the bridge where Cailan had been staked out. Alistair’s face was twisted in revulsion, and Wynne put a hand on his shoulder. “Alistair, are you all right?”

“They’ve left him here to rot,” Alistair replied. “We need to do something.”

“I don’t want to see anyone like this,” Leliana said softly.

“So this is what matters to so many?” Morrigan asked. “The wild places did not mark his fall.”

“They didn’t recognize his rule, either,” Daylen replied. “But everyone matters to somebody.” He looked up at the corpse again, shaking his head. “Alistair, Shale, bring him down. Gently. Sten, Zevran, gather some wood. We’ll give him a pyre.”

—ROTG—

The mood at the camp that night was subdued. Trail rations were the order of the day again, and Daylen was scratching Cupcake behind the ears as the others started to go to bed, one by one. “I bet that trip wasn’t much fun for you either, was it,” Daylen said quietly. The dog whimpered quietly, and Daylen nodded. “I know. It was a bad time all around.” The hound licked Daylen’s face, and the Warden smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, you’re right. We found each other because of it. I suppose that’s one good thing that happened.” Daylen mussed up the dog’s face, the mabari’s tongue lolling out. “You never did tell me how you made it out of Ostagar on your own, and found me.”

“ _Whuff_!”

Daylen’s jaw dropped. “What do you mean, ‘a story for another time?’ You’re not going to tell me?” The dog snuffled, and Wynne laughed, sitting across the fire from him. Cupcake wriggled free of his grasp and trotted around the fire, sniffing at the latest batch of knitting Wynne was working on.

“You are a handsome canine specimen, aren’t you? Yes, you are.” The hound leaned down, his hindquarters in the air and his stumpy tail wagging. “Oh, but look at that tiny stubby tail. Would you like a nicer tail? I could give you a long, swishy tail, if you liked.” The dog whined, and Wynne nodded, still sweet-talking as Daylen watched. “Just a wave and poof! Tail. You’ll adore it, I promise.” Cupcake tilted his head, whining some more as Wynne set the needles aside. “Or maybe you would like to be a different color? We could spice up that drab brown with some red, or blue. Perhaps even violet. Wardogs need to be pretty too, don’t they? Yes, you want to be pretty, pretty dog.” She scratched behind the ears, and the dog stared at her suspiciously. “That's right, you just love attention, don't you? And you want antlers. A big swishy tail and ant--hey!” Cupcake scampered off, Wynne’s staff held in his teeth. “He... he made off with my staff!” Daylen was choking out laughter, a fist against his teeth as he tried to be quiet. “Perhaps I underestimated his intelligence,” the enchanter admitted helplessly.

“Cupcake! Bring it back, boy,” Daylen called, and the mabari trotted over, depositing Wynne’s staff at Daylen’s feet. Daylen scratched him behind the ears. “That’s my boy. Good dog. Does this mean that I can count on you to make off with an enemy mage’s staff, if need be?” The dog snuffled noncommittally, and Daylen snorted. “You’re so lazy. And you really need to stop sneaking scraps of cheese.” The dog whined, and Daylen narrowed his eyes. “I know it wasn’t Alistair this time. And you know that I know that, because you were there when I asked him, and the cheese rinds he found in his pack had your teeth marks on them.” The dog walked away from Daylen and curled up by the fire, clearly deeply offended at Daylen’s slight against his character.

“Well, you know how the saying goes,” Leliana commented. “Smart enough to talk, wise enough not to.”

Daylen grunted, picking up the carving he had been working on. “I thank the Maker that he found his way to me, after Ostagar. He’s a good dog. The best dog.” Cupcake refused to look over at Daylen, but the sudden wagging of his tail let Daylen know he wasn’t being completely ignored. “And if he hadn’t been around, you lot never would have found Alistair and me after that avalanche.”

“The Maker does provide,” Leliana replied, before she looked over at Wynne. “You are not religious, yes? You do not believe?”

The enchanter glanced up from her knitting. “I do, to some extent. It does not govern my life, however. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing,” Leliana said. “You are just a very good person, and it shows, and I thought at first you were religious, like some of the revered mothers. But no, I thought about it and I realized that you are not.”

Wynne shook her head. “I do what I do because I enjoy it; because I enjoy teaching others, helping them. I do not seek recognition for my works. I do not seek the approval of my peers, nor the approval of a distant god.”

The bard smiled faintly at her words. “That is admirable, doing good for its own sake. Some I knew were not like that. They bragged about what they did, trying to impress others.” She adopted a thicker Orlesian accent. “You should have heard them. ‘Oh, Lady Adele, you fed and clothed twenty orphans, how noble!’ ‘No, no, it is nothing, Lady Clarabelle. You treated forty lepers, and gave them massages!’ Like a competition, with false modesty. Sickening.”

Wynne looked up at the same time Daylen did. Both glanced at each other, as if to confirm what they had heard, before looking back at Leliana. “Er, did Lady Clarabelle really give forty lepers massages?”

Leliana shrugged. “Who knows. Lady Clarabelle had strange tastes. I wouldn't be surprised if she did that, and more.” She paused, looking closer at Wynne for a moment. “You remind me of Lady Cecilie.”

The mage looked up. “Who?”

“She was an Orlesian lady. My mother served her until she died and Lady Cecilie let me stay, instead of turning me out on the street. You are like her in some ways. You have the same poise, the same air of nobility.”

Wynne chuckled. “Oh, child, I am hardly noble.”

Leliana waved a hand. “No, not necessarily by blood. I learned that nobility isn't just something you are born with. I have met nobles who were petty and mean—complete degenerates. Then there are people with a certain dignity and grace. It draws you to them, no matter who you are, or who they are. I think that the lowest peasant can have the most noble spirit and it will always shine through. It is this nobility of spirit that you share with Cecilie.”

Wynne looked touched. “Why... thank you, Leliana. It is very kind of you to say that. It is sometimes so hard to believe that you have been through so much, at such a young age.”

Leliana’s cheeks pinked slightly. “I think I look younger than I am. I am almost thirty, after all.”

Wynne eyed her. “Yes... yes, that is possible. When I was your age I was just about ready to take on my first apprentice. In hindsight, perhaps I should have waited a few more years. I was arrogant, my confidence bolstered by my youth.”

“It is so hard to imagine, seeing you now.”

Wynne gave an unladylike snort. “Oh, I've had some two decades or so to grow mellow. Believe me, back then I was quite... prickly.”

“So you are like a fine wine, yes?” Leliana asked. “Losing the raw edges over time?”

Wynne sighed. “I suppose there is some truth to that analogy but dear Maker, I do hate being compared to wine. Or cheese. Especially cheese.”

“How about brandy?” Daylen chimed in.

Wynne ignored him, and the younger mage pouted. “Do you miss the cloister much? I heard you were quite happy there.”

“Yes, I was, generally,” Leliana said. “It was peaceful and it gave me a new start. No one knew who I was...But sometimes I am glad I am away and back on the road. There were bothersome things about the place... well, bothersome people. Some of the brothers and sisters would talk to you like... like the Chant they spoke was more pleasing to the Maker. Oh, I hated the way they talked down at me. So sometimes I forget the words to the Chant, or say them wrong, but so what? The Maker looks into your heart, no? So it doesn't matter what your lips say as long as your heart is true.”

“I think you're missing the point, my dear. The Chantry believes the Chant of Light should be spread around the world. You cannot spread it, if those that are speaking the Chant are speaking it incorrectly.”

“But I came to the Maker before I had even heard all of the Chants,” Leliana protested. “The Maker speaks to people; they just don't know how to listen. It is all a power game, I think. If they convince others they know more, then they must be respected.”

“Ah, child, it is precisely this kind of talk that made them wary of you,” Wynne replied. “Opinions that differ from your own are always threatening.”

“She’s right,” Daylen said, blowing a piece of wood off the carving he was working on. “Just ask any mage that’s not part of the Loyalists, or the Aequitarians.” Leliana looked baffled. “They’re two of the Fraternities of Enchanters.” Leliana shook her head slowly, clearly still not understanding. “All right, short version. Groups of enchanters that hold the same views, basically functioning as political parties among the Circle mages. The various fraternities fight for power in the College of Magi. It’s supposed to allow mages to gather in peace and seek new solutions to old problems. It generally just makes us fight among ourselves and points out potential troublemakers to the Templars.”

“It could function as intended,” Wynne argued.

“But it _doesn’t_ ,” Daylen shot back. “All it does is split us apart. There’s the Loyalists, who push for total loyalty and obedience to the Chantry. The Chantry just loves them, as you might guess, and it’s a good bet that the senior enchanters among any given Circle will be Loyalists. Alongside them are the Aequitarians, who advocate personal responsibility and adherence to a strict code among mages. If a senior or first enchanter isn’t a Loyalist, chances are they’re an Aequitarian. For reference,” he gestured at Wynne, who shrugged in response. “The third big fraternity is the Libertarians, who are constantly pushing to have greater power for the mages. It’s supposed to be a big secret that they want to split away from the Chantry, but they’re really not fooling anybody. Joining the Libertarians simply ensured that the Templars would pay extra close attention to your activities. They’re regarded as a dangerous faction by the Chantry, and I’m sure that the Templars would love nothing more than to put the entire fraternity to the sword as an example.” Wynne scowled, but let Daylen continue. “There’s two other factions, the Isolationists and the Lucrosians, but they never affect things much. The Isolationists believe that the mages should withdraw from society altogether, just go hole up in a tower someplace far away from everyone. The Lucrosians just want to do what’s profitable. They don’t have much in the way of membership.”

“And what fraternity were you a member of?”

“No, no,” Daylen said, shaking his head. “You don’t join any of them until you pass your Harrowing. I wasn’t a Harrowed mage for even a full day before I was recruited into the Wardens. Even if I hadn’t been, I didn’t particularly care for any of the fraternities. The Loyalists ignore or wave off the abuses of the Templars, no matter how much blood is on their hands. The Aequitarians expect everyone else to follow the exact code they came up with and refuse to consider revising it, and are utterly shocked when someone disagrees with them. The Libertarians are so focused on breaking away from the Chantry’s control that none of them have thought about what they’d do if they did get their independence. Worse, too many of their members, the young, angry ones, have been afraid of their own existence for so long that they just want to make everyone else afraid of them for a change. The other two fraternities are a bit…out there, as well. Isolationists don’t seem to understand that the Chantry has no interest in giving up its secret weapon in case of another invasion, and if the Lucrosians got what they wanted, the Chantry would be shrieking about the second rise of the Tevinter Imperium as soon as one of their members purchased a house.”

Leliana sighed. “For all that mages have to put up with, it must be a wonderful thing, to be able to weave spells.”

Wynne frowned. “Wonderful? To you, perhaps. Most do not feel the same way.”

Leliana rolled her eyes. “Oh, what do they know? They are just jealous. The Maker gives you magic; you must use it. You do it so effortlessly. It's like breathing for you. I wish I had such talent.”

“Oh, but you do,” Wynne said. “You have your music, your dancing. You are more graceful than anyone I've ever met. I think that perhaps the Maker gives us all magic... but of different sorts.”

Leliana tilted her head, thinking. “I never thought of it that way. I suppose we all have our little gifts. Back in Orlais, I knew a noble lady who was like most of the other noble ladies—fair of face and slow of wit. Anyway, Catarina had the most uncanny ability to tie knots in the stems of cherries, using only her tongue. It was very impressive. The men, especially, loved watching her.”

Daylen snickered, and Wynne paused. “Uh, yes, that's exactly the sort of Maker-given magic I was talking about,” she finally said.

“It’s occurred to me, Leliana, that you asked Wynne whether she believes in the Maker, but you haven’t asked me,” Daylen commented.

“Well, you certainly blaspheme by the Maker and Andraste enough,” Leliana snarked. “Do you believe? Or are you just using convenient curses?”

Daylen scratched at the stubble on his face, thinking about his answer. “Well, nothing I’ve seen explicitly proves the existence of a Maker.” Leliana’s brow furrowed, and Daylen pushed on. “The Fade, spirits, the world around us – nothing I’ve seen has a workman’s seal on it that says it was made by a god, Andrastian or otherwise. But then, I’ve never seen any evidence of the elven gods either, or the Tevinter Old Gods, even.”

A pause. “You’re a Grey Warden,” Leliana said slowly. “Your order _kills_ Old Gods.”

“Do they?” Daylen asked pointedly. “Has any of the Archdemons ever come up and said ‘hello there, I’m Dumat! Here’s my Old God membership token.’ I would think they would have recorded that. Or could it just be that they’re creatures we don’t understand, and the everyone has assumed that they are of Tevinter because the Magisters Sidereal supposedly entered the Golden City?”

“Are you suggesting that they didn’t?”

“I’m suggesting that there’s only one story of the origin of the darkspawn and the fate of the Old Gods that survived from the First Blight. The Chantry insists that it’s the truth, but it happens to make the Chantry’s biggest enemy look bad. Who’s to say it’s true? Then again, who’s to say it’s false?”

Leliana stared at him. “What?”

“Look, any real god wouldn’t need to demonstrate its power to anyone. If the Maker is out there, and He does intervene at some point, He could do it in some way that we’d never know anything had happened at all. The Maker and I don’t have a real relationship, but an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving creator wouldn’t be reduced to tears by my doubt. After all, who’s to say the Maker believes in me?”

“Daylen, you’re giving me a headache,” Wynne said.

“I’m giving myself one, too,” Daylen admitted. “The point is, I don’t believe the way you do, but I’m not going to discount the possibility. That said, I don’t have any love for the Chantry. Honestly, I don’t know why most people do.”

“What do you mean?” Leliana asked delicately.

Daylen sighed. “All right. I don’t…I don’t mean to offend, here. But the Chantry barely considers elves, dwarves, or Qunari as people, and it explicitly refers to mages as property of the Chantry.”

“Many elves have found peace in the Maker,” Leliana insisted.

“I’m not arguing that,” Daylen replied. “But they aren’t allowed to join the Chantry, have flocks of their own, or take the vows of the Chantry that any sworn brother or sister would. I know that you love the Chantry for how they helped you. I respect that, I really do. But the Chantry only cares about non-magical humans. Oh, sure, Revered Mothers like it when elves or dwarves attend services, because then they can be sure those poor misguided ones aren’t following the wrong beliefs. But let’s not forget that the Chantry has led massacres against the Dalish and barely even acknowledges the dwarves or Qunari as existing. The Qunari have been in Thedas since the Steel Age, and there are a few scattered records that suggest they may have settled in the Korcari Wilds a thousand years before _that_. Yet the Qunari are still called ‘beastmen’ by the Chantry.”

Leliana sighed. “Daylen, if you wish a debate over each and every one of the Chantry’s policies, I am not the person you should be talking to.”

Daylen opened his mouth to reply, before pausing. “Yes, you’re right. That’s true. Sorry, the apprentices at the Circle would talk about this sort of thing for hours on end. I still get...emphatic, about it.”

“Well, if you two are going to continue, I am going to bed,” Wynne announced.

“Er…Wynne,” Leliana said suddenly. “I heard about... what happened, at the Circle, with you. And I... I don't really know what to say, but I feel like I need to say something. Sorry, perhaps?”

“I do not need sympathy, so do not feel obliged to give me comfort. We all die, Leliana, and we all know it. How is this different?”

Leliana shrugged helplessly. “Because... because it's sooner?”

“Is it really?” Wynne asked. “I may die next year, or I may die tomorrow, shot through the heart by a bandit's arrow. I do not know for sure. The constant fear of death is enough to take the joy out of anything, especially life. Do not worry for me, or for yourself. Death will take us when it wills and till then, we shall live, truly live.”

“Well, for the time you have left,” Leliana said, “I am glad you are with us.”

—ROTG—

It took the party almost a week to get back past Lothering, facing increasingly large and common packs of darkspawn. With the apparent death of Flemeth, whatever magic had been keeping them at bay had died as well. A company of Redcliffe knights aiming to keep the roads clear were grateful to have the Wardens arrive as an ogre was about to rip them apart.

Daylen was giving Maric’s sword an experimental twirl, still marveling at the weapon’s balance, when Wynne finished healing the last of the injuries among the knights and rejoined them. “It will be good, to return to Redcliffe,” the enchanter commented as Daylen sheathed the blade. “I admit, knowing a warm bed is waiting does make me want to return there.”

“We’re not going back to Redcliffe,” Daylen replied.

Wynne raised an eyebrow. “We’re not?”

“We’re not?” Alistair asked. “I thought we were going to Orzammar?”

“We are,” Daylen said. “But the knight in charge of this company told me that the roads between here and Redcliffe are swarmed with darkspawn. We’re going to need to cut east and take the long way around.”

“But that would add _weeks_ to our travel time,” Alistair protested.

“I know, but we have some business we can wrap up in Denerim anyway,” Daylen replied. “Besides, our reserves of coin are starting to run low.”

Alistair looked at him suspiciously. “How low are they, exactly?”

“So low that if we need to buy bread at the next village, we’re going to need to pay in labor,” Daylen said. “Hence my looting everything we came across. We can sell some of our medical supplies, maybe a few more of the lyrium potions, but when we do get to Denerim, we’re going to have to camp outside the city unless we can find something particularly lucrative.”

—ROTG—

“All right,” Daylen said as the group entered Denerim’s market square. “Alistair, Leliana, Wynne, find that dwarf that’s always talking about his fine crafts and see if you can sell any of the salvaged equipment. We’re keeping the best stuff, obviously, but the rest can go. Zevran, Sten, Morrigan, come with me. Shale...” Daylen looked blankly at the golem. “Try not to squash anybody. Unless they start taunting you.”

Shale gave another long-suffering sigh. “If it insists.”

“It does, unfortunately,” Daylen replied. “I’m sure that there will be ample opportunity for murder later.”

A messenger boy nearly ran headlong into Daylen as the Warden turned around. “Oi! ‘Scuse me! You Daylen Amell?”

Daylen blinked. “Yes?”

“Message for you.” The messenger thrust a sealed note into Daylen’s hands. “More things to deliver. Goodbye.” Without another word, the boy pelted off, and Daylen glanced at his companions in confusion, before breaking the seal and quickly reading it.

“All right, forget everything I just said,” Daylen said. “Well, everything except what I said to Shale about upcoming opportunities for murder.”

Alistair sidled up next to him. “What’s the note say?”

“That if we’re interested in working with the Antivan Crows, we should head to one of the back rooms of the Gnawed Noble,” Daylen replied. “Zevran. Thoughts?”

Zevran shrugged. “Could be a trap. Could be a legitimate job offer. The Crows operate in mostly-independent groups, after all. Just because mine took the contract, doesn’t mean another will make an attempt on your life.” He paused. “That said, we should definitely expect someone to try to kill us. That’s just good sense.”

“Well then, no sense in splitting up,” Daylen muttered. “We’ll take care of other business once we figure out what these Crows want.”

The tavern was only a short walk across the square, and as they entered, Daylen approached the barman. “I was given a note to see a man, said he was in one of the back rooms.”

“Down the hall,” the man said, gesturing. “First on the left.”

As they reached the room’s door, Daylen paused. “Sten, Shale, Leliana, Wynne, stand watch out here. You hear a commotion, come help.”

A well-dressed, balding man was waiting inside. Zevran’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the man, and Daylen spotted two mercenaries standing off to the sides of the room, staring at him warily. “You here about a note?” The man asked. “I am Ignacio. Maybe we have some things we can talk about.”

“Just see the conversation stays civil,” Zevran said icily. “If this is a trap…”

Ignacio glanced over at him. “Zevran, is it?” The elf glared at him. “You are Taliesin’s responsibility. Other Crows may try to kill you, but in my eyes, you’re already dead. So you are of no notice.” He gestured at Daylen. “But the Warden here, he is of great interest to me.”

“I would imagine so, considering you were hired to kill me,” Daylen replied, leaning back slightly and making sure he had all three of the other Crows in view.

“I can’t stress enough that I wasn’t hired to do anything,” Ignacio insisted. “An associate was, and he’s failed. And failed badly.”

“I’d like to see you do any better,” Zevran challenged.

“Do you take me for a fool?” the Crow snapped. “That’s a contract I’d never take.”

“Wise decision,” Daylen broke in. “Zevran, don’t taunt the nice assassin. Clearly he’s got something frightfully important to talk about. Besides, he’s not going to try to kill us. Well, yet.”

“A client can always hire more…help, if the job isn’t done the first time,” Ignacio allowed. “But I’m hoping we can make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Daylen glanced over at his own assassin. “Zevran?”

“I’ve only heard of the one time the entire House of Crows was hired for a job,” Zevran said, not taking his eyes off Ignacio. “A princely sum changed hands and an entire noble family died. Not one soul survived. Ignacio has the right of it. Generally, it is one master, one job.”

Daylen looked back to Ignacio. “All right, then. I’m listening.”

“Ferelden is a busy place. Blight, civil war, other mayhem. Lots of people not getting along. Sometimes they _really_ don’t get along. Maybe want to do something about it.”

“So I’ve experienced,” Daylen said dryly.

“The people that handle that sort of thing can get real busy, you understand. It takes time to do a good job, pride in your work and all. But customers have expectations. Not many people to turn to if you’re short-staffed in some lines of work. So someone that’s crossed our path and lived? Well, maybe they could help out. Make some coin. Everyone wins.”

“Well, except for whoever you want me to set on fire,” Daylen pointed out. Ignacio shrugged, conceding the point. “How does this work, then?”

“I hand you a scroll. You read it, you learn about someone interesting. If you find out something happens to him, something unfortunate, then if we talk again, I give you money for ‘letting me know.’ You don’t like what’s on the scroll, don’t do anything. Maybe he has an accident, and someone else tells me all about it.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Why all the innuendo? We both know what this is about.”

“You can never be too careful,” Ignacio said. “Can you blame someone for being circumspect?”

“Absolutely,” Daylen replied bluntly. “And if I do this for you, I want no more Crows after me. And none of that ‘outlived your usefulness’ shite, either.”

“I cannot promise that the House of Crows will leave you alone,” Ignacio admitted. “One master has a contract on you. But if you help us out, maybe if that master asks for help, he’ll just get silence, yes?”

Daylen grunted noncommittally. “Hand me the scroll before I change my mind.”

Ignacio held it out. “There you go. Makes for fine reading.”

“You’re a cautious little weasel, Ignacio,” Zevran growled. “What’s your angle? If you’re playing us false…”

“My dance is not for you,” Ignacio said dismissively. “I need to be real…honest, sometimes. And I can say I haven’t asked anyone to do _anything_. I’ve just given someone something interesting to read.”

“And you think that will save your hide when they nail it to a wall?”

“You’re already dead in my eyes, whoreson,” Ignacio spat. “Take care that I don’t learn otherwise.”

Daylen paused through breaking the seal on the scroll, and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. “Watch it, mate. You can have your double-speak and euphemisms, but you don’t threaten my companions. Or you wind up the way everyone else who’s made an attempt on my life has – rotting in a ditch somewhere.” He broke the seal, skimming through the scroll and grinning behind his beard.

“Enjoy the reading?” Ignacio asked.

Daylen cleared his throat, biting back his smile. “Is there any sort of bonus for doing a contract quickly?”

“Depends on the contract,” Ignacio said. “That one you’ve got, not especially.”

“Shame, that,” Daylen replied. “I already killed this bloke.”

Ignacio’s eyes bugged out. “What?”

“They set a trap for Warden sympathizers.” Daylen rolled up the scroll and passed it  back to him. “You have any other contracts for people I’ve killed?”

“I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again,” Ignacio promised. “You might want to look in the chest behind me. There might be something of interest.” Warily moving past him, Daylen cracked open the chest, finding two more scrolls and a fat sack of coin.

The Warden tucked away the coin and rejoined the others, passing one scroll to Zevran and cracking open the other. “Erm, these mercenaries, the Word of Kadan-Fe?”

Ignacio blanched. “No.”

Daylen gave him a guilty smile. “We wiped them out a while ago.”

The assassin muttered under his breath in Antivan. “Very well. You haven’t killed Gainley, have you?”

Daylen looked over Zevran’s shoulder. “Nope. Same deal with this scroll?”

“Deal?” Ignacio asked innocently. “I don’t know what you mean. But if anything interesting happens, feel free to come back. And consider that chest yours.”

“So if I kill them, the payment will be in the chest?”

“I never said that,” Ignacio insisted. “I’m just curious about various people in your kingdom. And sometimes I seem to misplace large pouches of coin. I’m quite careless that way.”

Alistair was smiling slightly, keeping his head down as Daylen continued. “You do mean what I think you mean?”

“All right, yes!” Ignacio rubbed at his forehead. “You kill them, look in the bleeding chest! Happy? Everything clear? Now if you don’t mind!”

“My goodness, so touchy,” Daylen sighed. “You should relax, Ignacio, you’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

—ROTG—

“So, good news is,” Daylen said that evening as the party regrouped, “between those two contracts we have the money to get to Redcliffe, and possibly Orzammar. But I think we should stay another day, see what else we can find. Any objections?”

“We staying outside the city tonight?” Alistair asked.

Daylen shook his head. “I got in contact with Brother Genitivi, just to check in. He insisted on putting us up for the night. Good news is his house doesn’t smell like a dead body anymore.”

“Good. Then tomorrow, we wring out whatever coin we can before we head out to Orzammar.”

—ROTG—

_The Chasind  
The Chasind "wilders" have lived in the Korcari Wilds since the first wars with the Alamarri drove them southward a millennium ago. According to their own lore, they had always been a forest-dwelling people that adapted quickly to their new home. Game and fish are plentiful in the wetlands, and the Chasind thrived._

_For a time, they and the hill-dwelling Avvars were true threats to the northern lowlands. The Tevinter Imperium had arrived and was hard-pressed to keep back the waves of invasions from the south and the west. The fortress of Ostagar was built specifically to watch for Chasind hordes venturing north of the tree line. It was not until the legendary warrior Hafter soundly defeated the Chasind in the first half of the Divine Age that the question of their ability to contest the lowlands was settled permanently._

_Today, the Chasind are considered largely peaceful, though their ways are still primitive compared to our own. In the Korcari Wilds they live in strange-looking huts built on stilts or even built into the great treetops. They paint their faces and are split into small tribes ruled by shamans like those amongst the Avvars. There are many tales of these shamans having learned their magic from the "Witches of the Wilds," witches that inspire as much terror as they do awe and gratitude even if there is no definitive proof they exist. In particular, the tale of Flemeth, the greatest witch of the wilds, is celebrated amongst all tribes._

_While there is no way to know how many there are in the Wilds today, few travelers that pass through the forests tell of Chasind eking out an existence even in the frozen wastelands of the far south. One can assume that should the Chasind ever organize themselves once more, we might have reason to fear them here in Ferelden. We ignore them at our peril._

_\--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1What did I tell you. [ return to text ]


	22. Business in Denerim and the Arrival in Orzammar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party scrape up every sidequest they can find in Denerim and do a little good in the process, before heading to Orzammar to cause more problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_Mana and the Use of Magic  
Mana is that which defines a mage. It is potential that dwells within a person but does not always manifest itself. All men are connected to the Fade; we go there to dream. But only those with this potential may draw upon its power. Mana is, then, a measurement of one's ability to draw power from the Fade, and it is this power that is expended in magic._

_As in all other things, it has limits. Just as a man has the strength to lift only so much weight and no more, a mage cannot work more magic at one time than his mana allows. If he wishes to work magic that would be beyond his strength, a mage must bolster his mana with lyrium. Without lyrium, it is possible for the reckless to expend their own life-force in the working of magic, and occasionally, ambitious apprentices injure or even kill themselves by over-exertion._

_\--From The Lectures of First Enchanter Wenselus_

—ROTG—

Morning found the Warden speaking quietly with Brother Genitivi, discussing the traps and trials they had had to face in the Gauntlet. A bleary-eyed Alistair entered the room, his hair sticking up at odd angles as Wynne sipped at a mug of tea. The enchanter wordlessly pointed at a pot of spiced porridge on the fire, and Alistair nodded gratefully, spooning out a bowl and sitting down.

“Again, Brother, I would strongly suggest caution with all this,” Daylen said, laying out a sketch of the pit they had crossed. “It would take a minimum of four people to cross this. A single mistake could cost someone their life.”

“I see,” Genitivi replied. “I’ve written to the Chantry, telling them of your adventures, and they are interested in having me lead an expedition. If this comes to fruition, I will ensure the utmost care is taken. It’s unlikely to happen during the Blight, but nonetheless, we know where the Urn of Sacred Ashes is!”

“The Chantry should at least send some Templars up to Haven, and keep the village secure,” Daylen suggested. “I doubt a darkspawn horde would do the temple much good.”

“You made this all possible, Warden,” Genitivi said. “I could never thank you quite enough. And I doubt Arl Eamon could either.”

Leliana entered the house. “I have good news and bad news,” the bard announced, dropping a sheaf of papers on the table, followed closely by another sack of coin. “The good news is that it turns out that there is a great deal of work available for people with a very particular set of skills. And there are several items on the Chanter’s Board, or with some of our other contacts in Denerim, that we have already taken care of. There are a handful of jobs around the city that we can do, and I was told to speak with the sergeant of the guard here in the market district for more work.”

“If I might interject?” Genitivi said. “You mentioned you had recovered some scrolls and books from the cultists at Haven. There is a Sister Justine at the Chantry here in Denerim. She’s the curator of the reliquary, and she may be interested in what you found. I’m sure you would be well compensated.”

“We’ll look into it,” Daylen declared, looking back to Leliana. “What’s the bad news?”

“There’s been an outbreak of Blight sickness in the Alienage. Some say it’s not true, but the bridge is sealed off. We have no way of getting there.”

“Not sure how much help we could be, even if we could get there,” Daylen said.

“I asked around, picked up a few other rumors – Loghain has named Rendon Howe as the new Arl of Denerim, with the arling going to his eldest son.”

“What happened to Arl Urien?” Alistair asked. “Or his son?”

“Urien Kendells died at Ostagar,” Leliana replied. “His son died in an elven revolt recently.”

Daylen’s brow furrowed. “Wait, Alistair, how many nobles were at Ostagar?”

“Quite a few banns, and a few Arls,” Alistair said. “But Urien wasn’t one of them. He never arrived.”

“Assassinated en route to Ostagar, I would think,” Zevran concluded. “Not an uncommon occurrence.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “Your work?”

“No, but Ignacio would not hesitate to take such a contract,” Zevran explained. “It’s good business.”

“There’s more. The city of Highever is full of Howe’s troops. There’s been rumors of a revolt, maybe even one that killed the Cousland family.” Leliana paused. “And some people think it wasn’t a revolt.”

“What do they think it was?” Genitivi chimed in.

“There were some people who claim that the Couslands were murdered. By Howe’s men. The garrison from Amaranthine was present at Castle Cousland the night that the revolt started. Howe declared himself Teyrn as soon as his men secured Highever.”

“Bold,” Zevran commented. “Almost impudent. But then, the regent is his ally.”

“So if Howe’s Teyrn of Highever _and_ Arl of Denerim _and_ Amaranthine…” Daylen said.

“Then he’s now one of the most powerful men in Ferelden,” Alistair finished. “Arl Eamon needs to know.”

“We’ll pass by Kinloch Hold on our way to Orzammar,” Daylen replied. “We’ll have a messenger sent. Now, then.” The Warden spread out the papers Leliana had brought. “Let’s see what needs doing.”

—ROTG—

“Sergeant Kylon, I presume?” Daylen greeted the man.

The man’s eyes widened. “Oh. Erm. Can I help you, Warden?”

Daylen glanced worriedly at Leliana, who shook her head. “How do you know who I am?” Daylen asked, wondering whether he was going to have to murder a sergeant of the city guard.

“Your likeness was passed around to the senior guardsmen at the palace,” Kylon explained. “I must say, the sketch didn’t do you much justice. Your hair and beard were longer, though.”

“Don’t remind me,” Daylen grumbled.

“Don’t worry, even if I believed the ‘official story’ of what happened at Ostagar, I’m no fool,” Kylon went on. “If I asked my men to apprehend you, they’d all run and cry big, sobby tears in their courtesans’ bosoms and leave me all alone to be skewered.”

“Probably more like set on fire, frozen solid, and smashed into little bitty pieces,” Daylen said reassuringly.

Kylon paled slightly. “Don’t disturb the peace in the market and that’s well enough for me.”

“Is the Market District really that bad?” Daylen asked.

“The lower market isn’t deemed important by the captain of the guard, even less with Arl Howe in charge,” Kylon explained. “So when I finally get the new men I request, I get the delightful surprise of discovering they’re Lord Such-and-Such’s illegitimate, untrained, moronic _whelps_. But lords keep sending me more of them. It’s decent pay, no expectations, a uniform. So I have a legion of bastards to protect the market from pickpockets, stabbings, and what-not. And Arl Howe’s specially picked men are the worst of the lot.”

“How are they worse?”

“With the bastards, I just have to worry about dicing, the odd bit of drool, or yelling at them too loudly and hurting their poor feelings, and then getting chewed out by their noble fathers. But I swear the arl’s men are more criminal than the miscreants we occasionally arrest. Some of them _are_ the crminals we have to arrest. So if your lifeblood isn’t draining in the gutters as we speak, don’t bother reporting it.”

“Sergeant?” Daylen asked.

“Yes?”

“Do you need a hug?”

“I need a _drink_ ,” the guardsman grumbled. “And I need men. Competent, honest, dedicated men who know which end of a sword to put in their hand and which to put in the criminal. You know any of those?”

“I happen to have several veteran fighters with me,” Daylen offered. “Do you need any help?”

“What? You’re serious?” The guardsman paused, cleared his throat, and nodded. “I mean, yes. Yes, I could use help. I got a pretty popular…establishment, that’s crawling with mercenaries. If I send my boys in, someone might get – Maker forbid – hurt. And I’ll have to explain to their noble fathers that being a guard is actually dangerous.”

“You need these men evicted?” Daylen asked. “Violently, or nonviolently?”

“The name of the whorehouse is the Pearl,” Kylon explained. “Beat down any mercenaries that are out-of-line and send them a message.” He leaned close to Daylen. “I said beat down, not kill. Let me make that really clear. Not on fire, or exploded, or Maker knows whatever type of grisly death you can dream up.” He paused. “Sorry. Used to giving orders to my boys. Just leave them breathing, and I’ll be happy.”

“We can do that,” Daylen promised. “What’s the pay?”

“Do a good job, and I’ll see you get some silver in your pockets. Maybe even some gold.”

“Sign me up, Sergeant.”

—ROTG—

Daylen walked into the Pearl, followed closely by his companions. “Shale, not to be a nag, but we do want these men alive.” The golem groaned. “I know. But please, restrain yourself.”

“That scamp Kylon sent you, right?” the madame asked. “Glad he hasn’t forgotten about us.”

“We’re here to help,” Daylen replied, nodding at a rowdy gaggle of men that were currently making a mess of the brothel’s main room. “Those loudmouths the ones you want out?” She nodded. “We got this.”

The party approached the mercenaries, and the leader stood up, sneering at them. “Turn around and walk, stranger. This affair is for White Falcons only.”

“Who or what are the White Falcons?” Daylen asked.

“We’re the toughest, meanest, and _loudest_ mercenary band form the Free Marches,” he said proudly. “If you haven’t heard of us yet, you will soon. Now get out.”

“By order of the guard, vacate the premises,” Daylen replied flatly.

“Get a load of this guard,” the leader jeered. “You’re telling _us_ what to do? Are we going to have a problem?”

“I should hope not,” Daylen said calmly. “Any fight here would probably cause more problems than either of us wants. Besides,” he raised a hand, frost crackling across his fingers. “You lot don’t want _any_ of what I am. So yes. I am _absolutely_ telling you what to do. Think of this as in your best interests. Nobles want solid, reliable soldiers. Not a bunch of riffraff that get themselves thrown out of a whorehouse.”

The leader stared at him a moment longer, before shrugging his assent. “You have a point there. Men, let’s clear out.”

The party discreetly tailed the White Falcons for some time after they left the Pearl, making sure they stayed away. The Warden and his companions were heading back to the market when they ran into Kylon, with several of his guards in tow. “I was hoping I’d find you,” the guardsman greeted them. “I heard about the Pearl. I don’t know how, but you got them to leave with no fuss at all.”

“Explained a few facts of life,” Daylen replied. “Made it clear it was leave or get smashed into paste.”

“I told you not to kill them,” Kylon protested.

“I know,” Daylen said with a nod. “But _they_ didn’t know that.”

“Either way, the Pearl’s ‘workers’ will-”

“Oi!” Everyone turned to see the newcomer. “ _Nobody_ gives orders to my men but me,” the mercenary leader spat. “A little lesson in respect is in order, it is!”

“I see,” Kylon sighed. “Don’t bother sparing these louts. Things are about to get messy.”

“Hold that thought,” Daylen said. “Shale? Remember what I said about restraint?”

“Of course.”

“Forget what I said. Have fun.” The golem charged, and the mercenary leader met a messy end as Shale punched him clear across the street, the man’s chest caved in from the force of the blow. Daylen, Morrigan, and Wynne opened up with torrents of lightning that killed most of the White Falcons present, leaving the rest sprinting away screaming various obscenities and pleas for mercy. Shale knelt and ripped a fencepost out of the ground, hefting it for a moment before lobbing it overhand like a spear and killing a fleeing mercenary on impact.

Kylon and his men had barely drawn their weapons by the time it was all over. The guards were staring in various amounts of awe and terror as Daylen nodded to Zevran and Leliana, and the rogues quickly set to looting the corpses. “And people actually voluntarily attack you?” Kylon asked. “Are they just _stupid_?”

“I wonder, sometimes,” Daylen admitted.

“Here’s the payment I promised,” Kylon said, passing over two gold coins. Daylen pocketed them as Alistair and Sten finished helping Leliana and Zevran pile up the bodies. “I might have more work, if you’re interested. But I’m heading back to the Market District. The back alleys are just too dangerous for me.”

“Well, we’re going to hit those gangs you put the bounty on with the Chanter’s Board,” Daylen explained. “Anything we can do to help while we’re out here?”

“No, not really, but I’ve gotten some complaints in the Gnawed Noble that some mercenaries have ‘invaded.’ Nothing violent has happened – well, yet – so the sellswords are probably just disturbing the nobles’ rarified conversation. Just drum the louts out of there. The barkeep doesn’t mind some blood – or ‘sport’, as she called it. Captain said ‘Denerim won’t miss a few dead mercenaries.’ So do what you will, and good luck.”

“All right, where’s that map of the city you stole,” Daylen asked Leliana as the guards left. “Time to clean up the streets.”

—ROTG—

The party was still scrubbing blood off as they left the back alleys of Denerim, their pockets and packs newly heavy with looted goodies and an assortment of suspiciously stained armor and saleable weapons. “That’s three gangs that won’t be bothering anyone anymore,” Alistair crowed.

“Other gangs will arise sooner or later,” Zevran replied.

“That’s true,” Alistair allowed, “But in the meantime, people will be able to walk home at night without getting robbed.”

“Well, let’s go get rid of those mercenaries at the Gnawed Noble and get our pay,” Daylen said. “Alistair, Wynne, Leliana, take the stuff we salvaged and see what you can get for it. Priority is coin, of course, but if anyone has up-to-date maps of the route to Orzammar, snag it.”

“The only place that sells maps is Wonders of Thedas,” Alistair replied. “You should check the store out yourself, they also sell magic-related equipment.”

“Could be useful,” Daylen mused as they re-entered the market, and the party split up.

Daylen glanced over at the barmaid as they entered the tavern. “Where are those mercenaries you want gone?” She pointed, and Daylen reared back, kicking the door to the room open.

“What are you looking at?” The leader asked. “We’re the Crimson Oars.”

“What is with these ridiculous names,” Daylen muttered. “The Crimson Oars?”

“You haven’t heard of us?” The man asked incredulously. “We’re mercenaries from all over the world! We have won many battles! And tonight we drink before the next!”

“And you drink here? I hear the docks have better bars,” Daylen pointed out.

“We happen to like the ale better, here. The wine, too.” The Crimson Oars leader paused. “Less vomit on the floor. So as long as we’re paying, they’re serving!”

“Well, you have two choices,” Daylen explained. “Either you leave, stop pissing off some nobles that could make your life hard, and find a bar with some friendlier women, or you and I step outside and I beat your arse black and blue.”

"Challenge someone to arm-wrestle me,” Shale suggested. “That would be fun."

“You’ve got a pair on you, mate,” the Oars leader said. “But you have a point.” He raised his voice, bellowing out into the main room of the Gnawed Noble. “Bar woman, you and your women are too old and shriveled! Too many damned clothes! Oars, we go to the docks! Let’s find us some wenches!”

“That was surprisingly easy,” Daylen muttered as the mercenaries trooped out.

The barmaid poked her head in. “Good job clearing those louts out. You could have killed a few of them, you know.”

“Too much effort to clean blood out of the floorboards,” Daylen replied as they left.

Kylon was glaring at the Crimson Oars as they staggered towards the docks. “Good job getting rid of them. I’m sure Edwina will send her regards, although she’ll be disappointed you didn’t knock their heads together. I also heard you cleared out those gangs.” He passed over a handful of sovereigns, and Daylen’s eyes widened slightly. “Here’s payment. You’ve helped out a great deal. The market will be a safer place thanks to your efforts.”

“Just doing what we can to assist,” Daylen replied.

“I’ll do you the same,” Kylon promised. “A lot of folk swallow whatever lies are fed to them, but us believers will try and spread word about you and the Wardens.”

Daylen paused. “I appreciate that,” he said slowly. “I do. Just…don’t go getting yourself fired, now. You seem an honest sort, I’d hate to see you lose your job on my account.”

“Warden, I’ve got four standing offers from different mercenary companies. If they fire me for speaking the truth, I won’t go hungry.”

With that, the group headed for the Chantry, Leliana splitting off to wrap a few side jobs up with the chanter as Daylen found the woman Genitivi had described. “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Sister Justine?”

“I am,” the woman replied. “Are you here for the chanter’s board?”

“Actually, I was referred to you by Brother Genitivi,” Daylen explained, fishing around in his satchel. “I worked with him on an expedition recently, and I found these scrolls in a Tevinter ruin.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Really? Pardon my…incredulity.”

“No pardon necessary, I imagine you get people all the time who claim they’ve found Andraste’s journals or Maferath’s cheese knife or something,” Daylen replied, pulling out the scrolls he had found at Haven. “Please be careful, they’re very old.”

“I would like to examine them, in any event,” Justine said, gently taking the scrolls. “Let me see…these scrolls are ancient, no question. And the script…” she peered closer, her lips pursing. “It’s written in cipher. Early believers used them to keep their writings safe from the Tevinter magus.” Her eyes widened. “These…could be authentic. Please, let me examine them.”

Daylen winced. “I hate to seem greedy, but these barely seem to be holding together. I’d need some sort of collateral.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If you are a charlatan, may the Maker have mercy upon you…there is avarice in your eyes, but I believe you. In a ruin, you say?”

“I’d tell you what else we found up there, but you’d never believe me,” Daylen muttered.

“I can give you five sovereigns,” Justine said. “If these prove to be genuine, we can discuss more substantial payment afterwards.”

“Done!”

“I will examine them as quickly as I dare,” Justine promised. “Perhaps do some shopping? Attend a service here at the Chantry?”

“We do have some other engagements here in town,” Daylen replied. “We’ll be back later. Please, be careful with those scrolls, it would be a shame for that history to be lost.”

“I will!”

“All right, we’ve made a _lot_ of money for very little work,” Daylen declared. He looked around the corner, spotting Slim Couldry leaning against the wall. The man shook his head glumly, and Daylen shrugged. “Let’s go find ourselves some maps.”

A short jaunt across the market later, the group entered Wonders of Thedas, the others rejoining them a few minutes later. As Leliana spoke quietly with the Tranquil proprietor, Daylen glanced around. “Quite a few magical artifacts,” he mused, glancing at a staff that appeared to be covered in frost.

Morrigan sniffed disdainfully. “You may think so. ‘Tis all junk, just as I…” she paused, peering closer at a shelf. “Is that an authentic Chasind tribal fertility carving?”

Wynne picked up the carving, examining it. “Hmm, jade, carved and polished into the shape of a large...” She looked closer, and her cheeks pinked. “Oh, I see. Well, that's just... rude.” She put the carving back, stalking off as Morrigan tried desperately not to appear amused.

Sten was looking around. “This is confusing. ‘Wonders of Thedas?’ What does that even mean? Do they sell geography questions?” 

"Ah, I have heard of this Wonders of Thedas even in Antiva,” Zevran replied. “But I thought the Wonders of Thedas was a whorehouse. Pity."

Shale was standing very still in the middle of the room. "Does it think they might have a chisel strong enough to chip my stone? I doubt it.” The golem turned to Sten. “I have never heard of such a thing called a Qunari.”

“Then you have not been listening,” Sten replied. “We did not row to shore last year, we have been about for centuries.”

“I have listened,” Shale snapped. “I have done little else, in fact, and yet I do not remember anyone mentioning such a Qunari in all my years in the village.”

“Relying on humans as a source of education is a fool's errand,” Sten said dryly.

“They are rather ignorant, aren't they? And feeble. At the best of times.”

“We have creatures on Par Vollen that are similar,” Sten replied. “The humans call them ‘monkeys.’ They are dull, cowardly vermin. They cry out shrilly when threatened and throw their own feces.”

“That is an excellent comparison. I wonder if they are related?”

“Possibly,” Sten allowed.

“I feel like we should be offended,” Daylen muttered to Alistair.

The golem and the Qunari ignored them. “So are all of your kind similarly powerful, Qunari?”

“I am not here to satisfy your curiosity, creature.”

Shale shrugged, nearly knocking over a display. “That is true. I suppose I sounded like a human, chattering away? I apologize.”

Sten paused. “No, it is I who should apologize. You are no human. You are a vastly superior construct.”

“That's kind of the Qunari to say. If all of your people are like you, it is a wonder you haven't crushed the humans under your heel.”

“I have wondered this same thing.”

“One just needs to look at them. They're so...”

“Small?” Sten supplied.

Shale nodded emphatically. “Exactly.”

“You and I, we are of the same mind, _kadan_.”

“I must say that it has been pleasant fighting at the Qunari's side.”

“I feel the same,” Sten said sincerely. “You are a remarkable construct, _kadan_. A warrior to be feared.”

“No more than the Qunari, surely. The way it strikes down its foes, marvelous!”

Sten bared his teeth. “I smile each time you roar a battle cry, knowing our foes tremble.”

“I could watch you fight all day long—the skill you display, the form, how the light plays on its muscles...” Shale paused, tilting its head slightly. “I mean... yes. Well done. With the fighting.”

Sten stared at the golem for a moment. “You, as well.”

Shale stared back. “Right.”

“Why do I get the feeling we’re not going to be allowed back here?” Daylen wondered aloud as Leliana paid for the maps.

—ROTG—

“I examined your scrolls,” Justine said excitedly. “I know a few of the early Chantry ciphers, but I am not fully familiar with this one. The bits I have made out…” she shook her head. “This may be an account of Maferath’s final days, and perhaps more!”

“Would make sense, considering the location,” Daylen mused. “It’s definitely a significant find, then.”

Justine was practically bouncing up and down. “If we could get a real translation? Well, this could be the discovery of a lifetime!”

“How long would it take to decipher?”

“It could take months, as the ciphers were designed to be difficult to decrypt,” Justine explained. “Who knows what secrets we can uncover? What truths we can find?”

“And if the truths aren’t convenient?” Daylen asked.

Justine looked mildly offended. “How would they be inconvenient?”

“Well, say someone impersonated Maferath and he was wrongly accused of betraying Andraste? Or that he was being controlled with blood magic? What if we’ve been blaming the wrong man for centuries?”

“Then the people have a right to know,” Justine insisted. “But I doubt that such would be the case. To think that the Betrayer might be innocent…” She shook her head, before holding out a sack of coin. “Here is all of the allowance I have for acquisitions. A thousand, thousand blessings on you!” Daylen pocketed it, feeling the weight.

“Well, we’ve had a busy day,” Daylen declared as they crossed the market again. “Zevran, any more favors we can do for those interested parties?”

“Nothing specific,” Zevran replied. “Somebody else has taken all the jobs they had to offer.”

“Well, we’ve done what we had to do today and we’ve made plenty of coin, so let’s relax, make some plans, and we’ll head out tomorrow.”

—ROTG—

As Denerim faded into the distance behind the party, Zevran prodded Alistair. “So are you a very religious man, Alistair? I am curious. I believe I heard you say you were raised in an abbey?”

Alistair shook his head. “I was raised in a _castle_. I was _schooled_ in the abbey. As far as being religious...I don't know. Not especially. What about you? Not in your line of work, I expect.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow. “Why do you say that? I happen to be quite devoted, in my way, as most Antivans are.”

Alistair looked baffled. “Truly? But you kill people. For money.”

“And I ask forgiveness for my sins from the Maker every chance I get,” Zevran replied. “What manner of monster do you think I am?”

“But...you ask forgiveness and then you go right on with your sinning?”

“The Maker has never objected. Why should you?”

Alistair paused. “I... have no idea.”

“Well there you go,” Zevran said. “Perhaps you ought to think about asking for a little forgiveness yourself, hm?”

Alistair was looking troubled, and Wynne took the initiative. “Did you speak often with Cailan?”

Alistair’s face soured further. “You're asking me if I have a relationship with my ’brother,’ aren't you?”

Wynne nodded. “I wonder what he thought of you.”

“I don't think he cared much about my existence,” Alistair replied. “I didn't mean anything to him. Anyway, to answer your original question, no, we never spoke.” He paused, his eyebrows furrowing as he thought. “Well, maybe once. Maric and Cailan had come to Redcliffe to visit the arl. I was very young then. We were introduced. I believe I said, ‘Greetings, your Highness.’ He said, ‘Ooh! Swords!’ and ran off to the armory.” Daylen snorted out a mouthful of bread, and was coughing out laughter as Alistair shrugged. “So, yes, that was the extent of our relationship. We drifted apart after that. Very sad.”

Wynne stared at him a moment, before shaking her head and looking to Daylen. “I was wondering something, young man. Why did you ask Sister Justine about the ‘truths’ she would find so insistently?”

Daylen sighed. “Because it wouldn’t be the first time the Chantry ignored something inconvenient.”

“What do you mean?” Leliana asked.

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “The dissonant verses? Those apparently unimportant parts of the Chant that the Chantry drops every so often because they no longer fit the narrative? They cut Thane Shartan right out of the chant a few hundred years back. An elven hero and a loyal friend to Andraste, excised out of the story as if he’d never been there at all. I never saw the point of the Chantry insisting that the Chant is unadulterated fact if they can just ignore parts of it at will. I don’t meant to get into another debate over Chantry politics with you, but the Chantry as an institution only exists to further their own interests. Sure, those interests sometimes fall in line with the tenets Andraste laid down, but if there’s a conflict, they toss Andraste’s word out the window and do what’s convenient for them.” Daylen sighed, shifting the oxen’s guides to one hand and rubbing at his face. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Gladly,” Wynne said, holding up a scrap of fabric. “Alistair, what's this?”

Alistair peered at it for a moment. “It's a sock?”

“It's a _filthy_ sock,” Wynne replied. “How did it find its way to my pack?”

Alistair shrugged innocently. “Maybe it likes you? Socks are sneaky like that. Anyway, it's not mine.”

“It has your name stitched on it,” Wynne pointed out.

Alistair winced. “Oh. Ha, ha. Ha. Part of Templar training, back at the Chantry. The men were... always getting their socks mixed up. Anyway, uh, sorry about that.” He held out a hand. “I'll take it from you right now. One of my socks is feeling a little damp anyway. A change would be nice.”

“You're going to put it on?” Wynne asked, aghast. “It's filthy!”

“And dry. We're not exactly traveling in the lap of luxury here.”

Wynne gingerly handed over the garment. “What hideous habits you've picked up.”

“Well, while I’ve got your attention, my shirt has a hole in it.” Alistair plucked at the fabric, the skin of his chest visible underneath.

“I see. And?”

“Can you mend it?” The warrior asked. “When we make camp?”

Wynne sighed. “Can't you mend your own clothes? Why do I have to do it?”

The warrior shrugged. “Sometimes I pick up too much fabric and it ends up all puckered and the entire garment hangs wrong afterward. And you're... you know, grandmotherly. Grandmothers do that sort of thing, don't they? Darning socks and whatnot. You don't want me to have to fight darkspawn in a shirt with a hole, do you? It might get bigger. I might catch a cold.”

Wynne threw up her hands. “Oh, all right. I'll mend your shirt the next time we set up camp.”

“Ooh! And while you're at it, the elbows kind of need patching too.”

Wynne gave him a mock glare. “Careful, young man, or puckered garments may be the least of your problems.”

“My shirt has a hole in it too,” Daylen chimed in.

Wynne’s glare at him was entirely real. “You _know_ how to sew, I know that!”

Daylen humphed. “Well ‘scuse the fuck right out of me.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing! Alistair, if you don’t want your clothes to have holes in them, stop getting stabbed.”

“Really, Lord Fireball?” Alistair shot back. “Been set on fire lately?”

“That was one time! And let’s not act like nobody else has ever done something embarrassing!”

—ROTG—

“Admittedly I lost my head here,” Daylen said, eyeing the burning forest.

“To say the least,” Alistair replied, brushing spiderwebs off his armor. “You never get that fireball-happy when Morrigan turns into a spider.”

“And ‘tis good I did not,” the witch added, casually freezing a wide stretch of ground around the fires. “I would have been most cross had you attacked me.”

“Difference is I know she’s not going to attack me,” Daylen pointed out, freezing a nearby tree to quench the flames licking at its bark. “When four or five of those things climb down _out of the blasted trees_ to attack me, I incinerate first and ask questions never.”

“Fair enough,” Zevran muttered, sniffing the air. “Do I smell burnt hair?” He examined his own hair, frowning as he spotted several singed spots. “ _Braska_.”

Wynne was busily freezing another section of trees, trying to contain the fires. “This is why I don’t use fire much,” Daylen admitted, spraying frost crystals along a tree’s trunk and extinguishing the flames. “It tends to reach farther than I would like.”

It took another hour for the group to finish quenching the last of the fires, and Daylen was admonished not to burn down any more of Ferelden than he absolutely had to. Night was falling, and the group pushed on, reaching a less spider-filled section of forest before making camp for the night.

Daylen was pacing restlessly, still eyeing the woods surrounding the camp. “Something on your mind?” Wynne asked.

“We have so little time,” Daylen said quietly. “How many people are dead already from the Blight? How many more will die before we can get to Orzammar, take care of whatever idiotic problem _they_ have, and then resolve the succession crisis in Denerim, and _then_ start hunting the Archdemon?”

“You can’t carry this all on your shoulders,” Wynne pointed out.

“Watch me,” Daylen said bitterly. “I’m a Grey Warden. And yeah, I think it was one of the best things that ever happened to me, but in case it’s not obvious, I really don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re defending all of us,” Wynne replied. “And yes, much rests on your shoulders. But you’re not alone, Daylen. It may not mean much to you, but thank you…for having the courage to continue the fight.”

Daylen smiled faintly, glancing over at the enchanter. “You know me. Stubborn. I don’t give up easily.”

“And that gives me hope,” Wynne said. “You were impressive as an apprentice. It is rare for Irving to take such an interest in a single mage’s development.”

“He’s a good man,” Daylen replied. “It was his teaching that made me into the mage I am today. More of a father to me than my own father ever was.” He stared into the woods. “It _has_ been a while since I left the tower, hasn’t it.”

“It’s been almost a year, hasn’t it?” Wynne mused. “Do you miss the tower at all?”

Daylen snorted. “Of course not. I’m glad to be rid of the place.”

“I see,” Wynne said guardedly.

Daylen sighed at her disapproving look. “It wasn’t the mages I objected to, and you know it. The Circle could work, but the Chantry would never let it – they’d never let us prove that we didn’t need to be locked up.”

“You can take a mage out of the Circle, but you can’t take the Circle out of the mage,” Wynne replied. “Or so Irving used to say. He was joking, but there is some truth to the statement. A mage never really leaves the Circle, and for the rest of your life, you will be seen as a Circle mage.”

Daylen quirked an eyebrow at her. “I’d like to see that happen when I’m wearing the Grey Warden colors.”

“But you will always be a mage, especially in the eyes of others,” Wynne countered. “You represent both mages and Grey Wardens, and your actions may reflect well, or badly, on both groups.”

“If I cared what other people thought, we’d never have made it out of Ostagar,” Daylen said. “I’ll do what’s right, and I don’t care what other people think.”

“That is commendable, but one’s principles are often subtly influenced by others, though you may be unconscious of it,” Wynne said. “The only thing one can do is to be aware that this is a possibility, and ask yourself often why you do what you do.”

“I do,” Daylen replied. “Only a fool never doubts.”

“That’s what I was thinking. What is that old saying?” Wynne began.

“You’d know that better than me,” Daylen quipped, ducking Wynne’s swat.

“I was _saying_ , great minds think alike, but fools rarely differ. Ah, but listen to me go on. You start a conversation and I just run away with it, don’t I?”

Daylen grinned. “Well, at least you don’t repeat yourself like other old people.”

“Oh, yes,” Wynne said dryly. “One must be thankful for small mercies.” She paused. “I know we have…discussed this, before. But have you given any further thought to what Aneirin said? There is wisdom in his words. You could be what the Circle needs most.”

“Like I said before,” Daylen replied. “I’m a Grey Warden for life. It’s not something you can just give up. If I survive the Blight, I’m almost certainly going to be tasked with rebuilding the Grey Wardens here in Ferelden.”

“Perhaps it simply is wishful thinking,” Wynne admitted. “Your life as a Grey Warden has given you a chance to venture abroad, farther than many mages have been. You’ve seen the world, dealt with kings and lords, Templars and apostates. You’ve seen the good and bad of all of these.”

“Mostly bad,” Daylen replied darkly. “I’m not the same man I was when I left the Circle. And why me? You could change the Circle yourself.”

“Oh, believe me, I would if I could, but I am not long for this world. Day by day, I feel myself weakening.” Wynne sighed. “It pains me to admit it, but I will not live to see the Circle rebuilt and made stronger and more glorious. This will be a dream I take to my grave.”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that. You promised to see the Blight through with me, and I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I hope you do,” the elder mage replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I did agree to fix the hole in Alistair’s shirt.”

As she departed, Daylen stared at the woods a moment longer, before smiling faintly. “You can come out now.” Morrigan appeared out of the shadows, scowling slightly.

“You are getting far too good at that,” she grumbled.

Daylen chuckled, eyeing the witch. “Truth be told, I wasn’t sure until I heard your breathing.” Morrigan huffed impatiently, and Daylen wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling Morrigan into a kiss that left them both breathless. “Soon as I’m healed…”

“You should not make promises,” Morrigan chided. “Your boasts may outpace your performance.”

Daylen gasped in offense. “Evil woman! I ought to make you wait longer!” He paused. “Wait a second, nobody wins in that situation.” Morrigan rolled her eyes, and Daylen shrugged, letting the witch step back, straightening her robes. “So Flemeth is dead. Well, dead-ish. You don’t seem convinced that it’ll stick, and considering she turned into a bleeding dragon, I’m not counting on her staying dead either. What now?”

“Now I have time enough to study Mother’s grimoire to find a way to prevent her from stealing my body in the future. For she _will_ be back. One day. I have no doubt of that.” Morrigan was nervously tapping her thumbnail against the enchanted ring Daylen had given her. “And if I cannot protect myself, one day I will track her down again in whatever body she inhabits…and she will die again. And _again_ , if need be.” She looked up to see Daylen smiling. “What?”

“Is it strange that I find your being determined like this attractive?” He asked quietly.

“Finally, a man worth the trouble,” she muttered. “But there is no need to think of such things now. I have you to thank for saving me, so let us…return to the task of dealing with the darkspawn, no?”

—ROTG—

It took over a week to make it back to Redcliffe. As they entered the village, Leliana drew Daylen’s attention to a group of raw troops training in the marshaling square under the watchful eyes of a company of mercenary soldiers. The party made their way to the castle, dropping off most of the salvaged equipment for use by Arl Eamon’s troops and reuniting with Bodahn and Sandal. The Arl had several companies of soldiers training outside the village, and multiple Fereldan mercenary companies had signed up as well for dirt-cheap rates.

“It’s coming together,” Arl Eamon concluded, poring over a series of reports. “We have word from the Dalish that they are ready to answer the call when the time comes, and the Circle is prepared to assist as well. As you may have seen outside, we have a reasonable force built up.” Eamon looked up at them. “But we still need the bulk of the Fereldan army.”

Daylen nodded. “We’re just stopping by to check in and resupply. We won’t even be here a full day. I’ve got Alistair and Zevran picking up a fresh supply of food and other sundries. We probably won’t be taking Bodahn with us, as I’m not sure he would technically be welcome, but we’ve gotten directions. It’s looking like it’s going to be a two-week trip, give or take.”

“That’ll have to do,” Eamon replied. “Word from Orzammar has it that the dwarven king has passed on. Old as he was, chances are he was poisoned or assassinated. That’s how the dwarves normally go out, isn’t it?”

“I _knew_ it,” Daylen groaned. At Eamon’s baffled look, Daylen shrugged. “Every group we’ve gone to looking for help has had some enormous problem that is preventing them from helping until we fixed it for them. We’ll make it work.” He paused, looking up at the Arl. “How’s Connor?”

“He’s all right,” Eamon admitted. “I’ve spoken with him. Made it clear that no matter what happens, he’s still my son, and I will _always_ love him.”

“Good,” Daylen said softly. “He’s already doing better than most mages do.”

—ROTG—

Daylen’s magic kept the oxen moving throughout the night, and the group made good progress sleeping in the back of the wagons in shifts. A handful of wisps orbiting the wagons lit the way, and as the party climbed into Gherlen’s Pass, pushing deep into the Frostbacks farther north than they had ever gone before.

Six days later, the oxen trundled to a stop as Leliana tugged gently on the leads. “There’s somebody up ahead,” she hissed, prodding Daylen. The Warden grumbled as he uncurled from under the blanket, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Morrigan gave a catlike stretch as Daylen clambered out of the wagon before tossing the Warden his staff as he swished water around in his mouth to clear his throat. “They’re waiting in the road.”

“Word’s gotten out about a Dalish army building in the east, and Loghain _has_ to have heard about what happened at the Circle by now,” Daylen replied, nodding to Alistair as the warrior joined him. “I’m guessing bounty hunters. It’s been a while since we’ve had to deal with any of them.”

“How do you want to do this?” Alistair asked, tightening the straps on his bracers.

“How many are there?” Daylen asked.

“No more than six,” Leliana replied, stringing her bow. “We are not far from Orzammar.”

“All right. Zevran, Leliana, Morrigan, hang back. If things get bloody, pick some of them off from range. Sten, Alistair, Shale, with me. Let’s see if we can’t resolve this peacefully.”

As soon as Daylen got close enough for the bounty hunters to recognize him, they drew steel. “About time a Warden showed,” one of them growled as they charged, an archer and a mage hanging back. “Loghain sends his regards!”

Daylen shrugged, lobbing a fireball into their midst to knock them off-balance as arrows felled two of the men, Morrigan’s lightning bolt hitting a third man as Shale ripped a boulder from the hillside and flung it at the bounty hunters’ mage. Alistair didn’t bother drawing his sword, instead grabbing a well-balanced dagger from his belt and flinging it overhand, the blade sinking into the archer’s throat.

The group looted and gathered the bodies together with a practiced ease that made Daylen wonder if they should be questioning their life choices. Piling the looted gear into the wagon, the party found Orzammar a few bends farther down the road, crossing a small footbridge and finding a makeshift market encampment outside a set of massive gates set into the mountain. Equally massive stone statues of dwarves flanked the bridge and the gates.

“Anyone here ever been to Orzammar before?” Daylen asked.

“I have, once, with Duncan,” Alistair replied. “It’s quite the place.”

A quick sweep of the ‘market’ outside the gates garnered an almost universal result – nobody was going in or out of Orzammar, and most of the dwarves were too irritated over the city’s actions to do anything about it. A single man was willing to trade with the Warden’s party, and it was only when they found out the squirrely merchant of ‘previously owned goods’ was in fact the same Faryn who had made off with Sten’s sword that Daylen stepped between the trader and the Qunari.

“Consider yourself lucky that we found the sword before we found you,” Daylen said coldly. “You get to keep all your limbs in their appropriate places.” The man paled as Sten glared at him. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

The group made their way up to the gates, spotting a trio of angry humans standing in front of an equally irritated dwarf. “You insult all of Ferelden with your actions!” The leader of the humans was protesting. “King Loghain will not suffer the delay of his appointed messenger!”

“Wait, _King_ Loghain?” Alistair asked incredulously. “That’s impossible.”

“Even if we somehow missed the Landsmeet, there’s no way the messenger could have beaten us here,” Daylen agreed. “Wrongfully claiming the title of king still counts as treason, doesn’t it?”

“Very, _very_ much so,” Wynne added as the messenger continued to berate the dwarven guard. “Suppose we should point that out to him?”

“ _Veata_!” The dwarf finally shouted. “This land is held in trust for the sovereign dwarven kings. I cannot allow entry at this time!”

“King Loghain demands the allegiance of the deshyr or lords or whatever you call them in your Assembly!” The messenger shouted back. “I am Imrek, his appointed messenger, and you will treat me with respect!”

“I don’t care if you’re the king’s wiper,” the dwarf growled. “Orzammar will have none but its own until our throne is settled.”

“I heard that King Endrin had returned to the Stone,” Daylen said as they approached. “My condolences to your people.” The dwarf eyed him suspiciously, and Daylen continued. “Not to add to your problems, but I do have urgent business in Orzammar.”

“Who doesn’t?” Imrek spat. “If I don’t get in, no one should.”

“The Assembly has gone through a dozen votes without agreeing on a successor. If it is not settled soon, we risk a civil war.”

Daylen grunted, fishing around in his satchel. “The Grey Wardens need their traditional dwarven allies.” He produced the treaty, holding it out. “This treaty obliges Orzammar to aid me against the Blight.”

Imrek purpled. “The Wardens killed King Cailan and nearly doomed Ferelden! They’re sworn enemies of King Loghain!”

“A traitor and a usurper,” Daylen said without looking at the man. “There has been no Landsmeet. He is not king.”

“Well, that _is_ the royal seal,” the dwarf admitted as Imrek spluttered. “That means only the Assembly is authorized to address it. Grey Warden, you may pass.”

Imrek was practically apoplectic. “You’re letting in a traitor? And a foreigner? In the name of King Loghain, I demand that you execute this…stain, on the honor of Ferelden!”

Daylen finally turned to face the messenger, mana starting to boil off of him. “Listen to me, you little worm,” he hissed. “Run to your false king, and tell him that his treason and lies will need to be answered for. The dwarves will not hear him today, and unless you wish to be destroyed, I suggest you leave.”

Imrek paled. “You…you’ll hear of this,” he promised. “King Loghain will see you quartered!”

“You are free to enter Orzammar, Grey Warden,” the dwarf said gratefully as Imrek and his companions fled. “I don’t know what help you will find.” The gates opened, and Daylen ducked his head slightly as they entered Orzammar.

“For a short people, dwarves certainly build things tall,” Leliana commented, looking up at the high ceilings.

“Goodness, it’s warm in here,” Daylen muttered. “Are they…is that _lava_?”

“They use it to light and heat the city,” Alistair explained. “There’s some sort of runic setup that prevents it from cooking everyone. Or consuming the city.” The Warden was still staring at the nearest lava vent. “Daylen? Daylen, it’s all right, they’ve lived here for centuries.”

“I…all right,” Daylen said nervously. “What is this place?”

“I remember it being called the Hall of Heroes, or something like that,” Alistair explained as they moved through the hall, passing a mother and daughter arguing. “These statues are their Paragons. Role models, of a sort. Some are war heroes, others are inventors, but they’re raised to this status by their Assembly. They’re made nobles.”

“On the basis of a single act?” Daylen asked. “Doesn’t that lend itself to unqualified people gaining power?”

“Show respect, surfacer,” a nearby dwarf growled. “You’re in the Hall of Heroes, home to the best of us.”

“These statues of your Paragons are quite grand indeed,” Daylen agreed. “They make quite a statement.”

“If only we had a Paragon now,” the dwarf mused. “A unifier. A voice like that…there would be no dissension.”

“Dissension?” Daylen echoed.

“There is argument over who should be king,” the dwarf said.

“Great, another succession crisis,” Daylen groused. “Excuse us.”

“Goodbye, Warden,” the dwarf replied. “I hope you’re not needed.”

The group entered a large cavern, the path splitting off to either side and crossing a large chasm to another large gate. Two groups of dwarves were facing off at the crossroads, their leaders arguing heatedly.

“It is the Assembly who makes a king, and a king who nominates his successor,” a grey-haired dwarf in fine clothing declared. “None of it is carried in the blood!”

“Or, as now, when someone tries using the Assembly to pull a coup,” his opposite number spat. Daylen looked at the new speaker, a blond-haired dwarf in mail. “Who’s to say what my father said in his final hours when the usurper Harrowmont was the only one by his side?”

“I’ll have you thrown in prison!” the dwarf apparently named Harrowmont declared.

“You’ve bitten off more than you can chew!” the blond spat.

A third dwarf intervened. “Handlers! Separate these deshyrs in the Diamond Quarter! I will not have Bhelen incite a riot!”

One of Bhelen’s men drew his axe. “You’ll not speak that way about the man who should be king!” Several other dwarves ran as the attacking dwarf sank his axe into the mediator’s midsection, knocking him on his back before finishing him with a strike to the neck.

The rest sprinted away as a guardsman shoved past Daylen. “Stone-blind idiots!” the guard cursed. “I won’t have fighting in the commons! Especially in front of outsiders! If I find that sodding fool, I’ll have him in the Legion.”

“Is this common?” Daylen asked him.

“ _Veata_ , surfacer,” the dwarf greeted him. “I am bid to let you walk the commons, but keep your place. Warden or not, I want order.”

“You call this order?” Daylen asked, gesturing at the corpse. “The Wardens are calling upon Orzammar to provide assistance against the Blight.”

The dwarf snorted. “Surface problems. Well, we have no king to hear you. You can join the shouting at the Assembly in the Diamond Quarter, if you want. Bunch of deshyr lords bickering over sand. Bhelen, Harrowmont…is one so different? No Paragons here.”

“Sounds like Bhelen and Harrowmont are the ones to talk to,” Daylen mused.

“They’ve caged themselves for fear of each other,” the dwarf replied. “As you’ve seen, keeping order down here among us working people is dodgy. No place for a proper lord.”

“We should get going,” Daylen said. “I imagine you’ve got lots to do. What with the murder and all.” The dwarf gave him an irritated look, but bid them farewell as the group moved down the left-hand path.

"What a remarkable amount of lava,” Zevran said, looking over the edge. “Do you think anyone ever falls in?"

“Would be an easy way of assassinating someone,” Daylen replied, taking a careful step back from the edge. “Let’s get the lay of the land, then find Bhelen and Harrowmont and figure out what we need to do to settle _this_ crisis.”

“Nothing’s ever easy, is it,” Alistair sighed as they passed a tavern. "What is that smell? Dwarven vomit? Charming."

Daylen spotted a trader. “Topsiders?” The dwarf asked, looking them up and down.

“Grey Wardens,” Daylen replied.

“Good. Get some outside gold in here, calm people down. Make them think we should open the gates for good. I’m Legnar, by the way.”

“Daylen Amell. Are things that bad here?” Daylen asked.

“Not as bad as they might seem,” Legnar replied. “Tapsters never closes, and the market is busy, but we need change, and we need outside trade coming in. Outside ideas, too. More cracks in the old way, the better. That’s what Bhelen stands for.”

“Why the allegiance to Bhelen?”

“Not that it’s your business,” Legnar said gruffly, “but I see where the gold is. He’s the traditional pick, yet he wants a new way, whether some like it or not. Orzammar’s stuck in the past. Bhelen will bring us into the present.”

“Harrowmont’s a traditionalist, then?”

“Through and through,” Legnar groused. “Yes, some say Bhelen killed his father, but just as many say Harrowmont, and neither being Paragons, I’ll go with the promise of more trade.”

“Practical of you,” Daylen replied. “I don’t mean to pry, just trying to find out what’s going on.”

“You want to do some business, or just stand around jawing all day?” The two dickered over the equipment the group had salvaged from the bounty hunters outside, and a few minutes later the group moved on, heading farther down the path.

“Well, that’s something you don’t see every day,” Daylen commented upon spotting a dwarf in badly hemmed Chantry robes. “Hello there.”

“Maker’s blessings on you, brother,” the dwarf replied. “I’m Brother Burkel, of the Redcliffe Chantry, returned to my ancestor’s land to spread the Chant of Light. I’m petitioning to join the Chantry in Orzammar.”

Daylen grunted noncommittally, unbuttoning the top of his robes. “Don’t dwarves worship their ancestors? Thought they had their own religion already.”

“There is…resistance,” Burkel admitted. “It’s obvious the world wasn’t created by the mortal souls who dwelt within it. But Orzammar persists in worshiping its Paragons and forefathers, instead of the Maker.”

“And is doing so not their right?” Daylen asked. “It’s their religion. Perhaps you shouldn’t interfere.”

“You speak as if these people have deliberately chosen to reject the Maker,” Burkel protested. “But most of them haven’t even heard His name. How can they choose the path of enlightenment if they never learn that path exists?”

“Except they are notoriously resistant to change and stubbornly attached to tradition,” Daylen pointed out. “And you think you can show everyone the way? Rather presumptuous.”

“Andraste revealed the truth!” Burkel insisted. “The Maker took her up to live at His right hand and-” He paused, sighing. “No. Never mind. It’s clear you’ve strayed too far to be brought back with a single conversation.”

“Perhaps,” Daylen admitted. “Or perhaps you are the one who does not do the Maker’s work. Your home, Redcliffe? The only reason it still stands is because of our efforts. The village was nearly wiped out by undead, and had we not arrived when we did, it would have been destroyed entirely. If that doesn’t count as divine providence to you, I’d have to ask you what does. Think about that when you accuse someone of ‘straying too far,’ _Brother_.” Leaving the shocked dwarf behind, Daylen moved on.

It was by continuing down that path that the party found themselves in Dust Town. The buildings were little more than ruins, the path unpaved dirt with thankfully unidentifiable filth scattered about. Dwarves stared suspiciously out at the party as they entered the district, a mix of fear and greed in their eyes. "Let me guess,” Alistair said quietly, surveying the area, “this is where the poor people live?"

“I smell a seedy underbelly, warts and all,” Zevran agreed.

“The differences between this side of town and the others is…striking,” Wynne said softly.

“They let people live like this?” Daylen asked. “This is what Orzammar is?”

“Daylen?”

The Warden’s fists were clenched at his sides. “I’m fine. Let’s just...keep moving.”

The group moved through the town slowly, several dwarves vanishing into the shadows as the party got too close. A quartet of dwarven thugs in leathers emerged from a doorway, walking purposefully towards the group. “There’s a rich one,” the leader declared. “We’ll get plenty for their kit once we cut them out of it.”

“Kind of optimistic, aren’t they?” Alistair asked, catching a crossbow bolt on his shield and engaging the leader as Leliana dropped the crossbowman with a single shot. Daylen casually froze another dwarf and stepped aside as Sten smashed him to bits, Shale stomping another thug into paste as Zevran sank his blades into the last dwarf, who had been stuck in place with a mix of a paralyzing glyph and a mind-bending entropic spell.

Several other dwarves scurried forward as the group moved on, stripping the bodies of their equipment and belongings. Looking closer, Daylen noticed every dwarf around them bore a large brand on their right cheek, the mark stretching from the corner of their mouth to just below their eye.

“Maker, this is appalling,” Daylen murmured.

“This is Dust Town,” a voice from around Daylen’s waist said. “Who are you, anyway? You’re no guardsman.”

“Daylen Amell, Grey Warden,” Daylen introduced himself to the branded dwarf who was half-concealed in a doorway.

“Oh? You looking for a chance to bring in some coin?”

“Always.”

“Could be I have that opportunity, especially for someone with a few connections above-ground.”

“I’d have to hear what you’re asking,” Daylen replied.

“Ah, no offense, but your kings have some laws that don’t make sense in a practical kind of world. Like about who gets to buy and sell lyrium, the sacred gift the Stone provides us to show her love. No law should regulate that.”

“It’s profitable to regulate it, when you have an entire army addicted to it,” Daylen pointed out. “You a smuggler?”

“Please,” the dwarf scoffed. “I’m a supplier. Name’s Rogek. The laws are meant to keep mages away from the stuff, so there’s always buyers in the Circle Tower. I’ve got one man, name’s Godwin, he’s expecting a delivery of a stone’s weight.”

“Ah, Godwin,” Daylen said knowingly. “Weasel-looking fellow, red hair?”

“You know him?”

“I was a Circle mage,” Daylen replied. “I knew Godwin had something going on, but I never knew what or how.”

“Well, if you want an investment opportunity, I could see fit to say, sell _you_ that lyrium instead, at the reasonable price of fifty sovereigns.” Daylen choked on a breath. “You can keep it, or since you can travel freely from here, sell it to Godwin, who you know is buying. And, uh, if you bring back his return order, I could pay you. Say, twenty sovereigns as a finder’s fee?” 

“Fifty’s a bit much when you’ve got no options,” Daylen pointed out. “Besides, the Circle’s a bit of a mess right now. The demand is going to be much lower. Thirty sovereigns.”

“Forty-five,” Rogek replied immediately.

“Tell me, how interested are you in getting that lyrium – which I _know_ is heavily regulated, and very dangerous to have on you if you get stopped by a guardsman – off your hands and to a paying customer? Try thirty-two.”

“I paid more than that just _getting_ the lyrium,” Rogek snapped. “Forty is the lowest I can go and still turn a profit.”

Daylen grunted. “Fine. Forty.” The group counted up the coin, some of it in silver, handing it over to the dwarf.

“You haggle like a merchant-born,” Rogek said, producing a box. “You, ah, probably don’t want to take it out of the box. I’ll be waiting for the next order somewhere out of sight.”

The group wandered further into Dust Town, finding a woman sitting in the filth near a bonfire. “Well, look at that,” she said, grimacing as she slowly rose to her feet. “It’s not often ol’ Nadezda sees a fine-dressed stranger here in Dust Town. Help a poor cripple?”

Daylen dipped a hand into his pocket, picking out a handful of silver. “Buy yourself some food.”

The dwarf looked between Daylen’s outstretched hand and his face for a moment in surprise, before gratefully accepting the coin. “Well, thank you truly, my lord. That’s right good of you.”

“Decent, at best,” Daylen commented. “This place is a pisshole. You really live like this? On the surface, even the worst slums are better than this.”

“It takes a stranger to notice how bad things are, huh?” Nadezda replied. “No dwarf would lift a sodding finger. Excuse my language. What takes you out of the Diamond Quarter, stranger? You got a vice you’re looking for old Nadezda to fill?”

Daylen paused. “Er, no, my healer said I should avoid those sorts of things for a while. I nearly broke my spine a while ago, and I’m still not quite healed yet. How did you get crippled?”

“I’d say it was an accident, try to get some sympathy coin,” she admitted, “but you look like you’d rather hear the truth. I was running protection for the carta when some guardsmen caught me. Duster I was with had coin for a bribe, but I took a stand. Guardsman broke my sodding kneecaps and had me kneel in dung until the infection set in. Never healed proper.”

Daylen’s eye twitched. “They can just get away with that?”

“I don’t know where you’re from, but in Orzammar, casteless have no lineage, so it’s no crime to hurt you. You’re born to wear a branded face in Orzammar, and you’ll live your life in Dust Town.”

“Why not leave?” Daylen asked. “You’d be starting from nothing on the surface, but you wouldn’t have to deal with abuses like that.”

“I wouldn’t get very far on these legs,” Nadezda replied.

“Wynne?” The healer knelt on one side of Nadezda, and Daylen crouched on the other, both ignoring the filth crusting their boots. The blue glow from the healing magic lit the narrow street, and Nadezda hissed, hands clawing at the muck as magic rearranged her joints.

Eventually, the two healers pronounced their work done, and Daylen helped a shaking Nadezda to her feet, the dwarf gingerly bending her knees. “Stone…I can _move_ ,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Why?”

“Because you deserve a chance,” Daylen said softly. “I would say ‘make for the surface and don’t ever look back,’ but there’s a Blight going on up there. Once things calm down? Get out of here, find some work, and leave this place behind.”

“I will,” Nadezda promised.

The group wandered farther down the path, Daylen and Wynne healing the odd dwarf brave enough to come forward and declare an illness as they went. “I’m leaning more and more towards just burning down the rest of Orzammar,” the Warden growled.

“It’s stone,” Alistair pointed out.

“ _It’d be worth the effort_.”

“Spare a bit for the needy?” a woman clutching a bundle asked. Daylen glanced over, his eyes narrowing as he noted a lack of a casteless brand on her face. “Have you a coin to spare, m’lord? Please, my son is sick. He hasn’t any clean clothes to wear, or anything to eat today. Neither have I.”

Daylen fished out another handful of silver. “Buy yourself a meal. Why are you down here? You’re not casteless, clearly.”

“Thank you,” the dwarf said warmly. “That a stranger would care so much, when my own family barred me from their halls, unless I’m willing to-” She broke off, her voice cracking. “No. I can’t.”

The Warden’s face tightened. “What does your family want you to do?”

“My son’s father is casteless, as is he. I used to be a miner, but my parents stripped my caste and refused to accept me back, unless I…” she took a slow breath. “Unless I agree to abandon the child in the Deep Roads and pretend I never bore him.”

“If you’re a miner, why would your son be casteless?”

“The lineage is traced through the child’s same-sex parent,” she explained. “Had my baby been a girl, she would’ve been a miner, like me. But as a boy, my son is considered tainted forever by his father’s seed.”

“Tell me something,” Daylen said. He was still smiling faintly, but his eyes had gone from warm brown to the color of flint. “What’s your name?”

“Zerlinda,” the dwarf said slowly. “Why?”

“And your father?”

“Ordel.”

“Where might I find him?”

“He’s usually at Tapsters in the evening,” Zerlinda said. “Why?”

“I’m going to go…have a word with him,” Daylen growled. “Wynne, take a look at the child. Can’t have the little tyke getting sicker.”

Daylen stood, turning, and Alistair spotted frost crystals gathering across the mage’s knuckles. “Daylen.”

“Get out of my way,” Daylen growled.

“I’m not letting you go alone.”

Daylen stared at him a moment, before nodding once. “You, Zevran, Shale, with me.”

—ROTG—

“How do you want to do this?” Alistair asked as they approached the tavern.

“Shale, smash the door,” Daylen ordered.

“Wait!” Alistair slid into the way, his hands up. “Let’s not get ourselves thrown out of the city on our first day.”

“Fine.” Daylen kicked the door open. “Where’s Ordel?”

“I’m Ordel,” a dwarf pronounced, standing up. “What are you looking at, stranger?”

“A corpse, if I have my way,” Daylen spat, his eyes blazing. “What kind of monster throws his child out on the street?”

“Oh, I’m the monster? Not the casteless wretch that filled my daughter with his brat?” Daylen reared back to punch the dwarf, and Alistair caught him by the wrist. “I’ve got a family and a reputation to protect. I’m not letting one stupid girl drag us all down.”

“That ‘stupid girl’ _is your family, you fuckwit_!” Daylen shouted, lightning crackling around his fists. “ _She’s_ what you’re supposed to protect! And if you don’t take her back, she’s going to die out there!”

The dwarf paled. “What? You think she’d die just to keep that thing? She knows what she has to do to come home. I never wanted _her_ gone, just the little cur. Can’t she see she’d have a better life if she just got rid of it?”

Daylen jerked free of Alistair’s grasp, grabbing the dwarf by the front of his jerkin and hauling him off his feet. The Warden slammed the dwarf down on the table hard enough to knock the wind out of him, their faces inches apart and his arm braced across the dwarf’s chest, keeping him from sitting up. “You refer to your grandchild as a thing one more time and I will personally throw you into the lava. He’s a baby, not a cur. And she loves him.”

Ordel wheezed, his eyes bugged out in pain. “Look, just tell her…we never meant to hurt her. It just seemed best that…” the dwarf sighed. “Oh, just tell her to come home. Her mother and I are waiting for her.”

“Oh, no, no,” Daylen chuckled. “You don’t get off that easily.” He hauled the dwarf to his feet, grabbing him by the ear and hauling him out the door. “You’re coming to Dust Town with me and you’re going to apologize to her in person!”

The group made quite a sight, Daylen bodily dragging a protesting dwarf by his ear through the alleys of Dust Town. Zerlinda stood up, utterly shocked by their approach. Daylen shoved the dwarf to his knees in front of his daughter. “F-father,” Zerlinda stammered.

“He’s got something to say to you,” Daylen declared. “Don’t you, Ordel?”

“Zerlinda, I’m…I’m sorry,” the dwarf said. “I never thought…I didn’t think you would die for the child! Please, come home! Both of you!”

Zerlinda was staring at her father in shock. “Really?” Ordel nodded frantically, and Zerlinda accepted her child back from a cooing Wynne.

“Let’s go home,” Ordel said softly, but Daylen caught him by the shoulder.

Daylen leaned in close. “Let me be perfectly clear,” he growled. “If you ever mistreat your child or your grandchild again, I will come get her, take the both of them to the surface, set them up in lovely new lives where they will never think of you again, come back here, and then  _kill you_. Is that clear?” The dwarf was staring at him in undisguised terror. “ _Is that clear_?”

“Yes,” the dwarf whispered, before taking off at a sprint, a dark stain spreading across the front of his trousers. Zerlinda followed him slowly, looking baffled but grateful.

“You certainly know how to convince people,” Zevran commented as the man rounded the corner and left their sight, grinning as Nadezda fell over laughing, clutching at her ribs as she wheezed.

—ROTG—

_The City of Orzammar  
The dwarves are lauded for their craftsmanship, and the city of Orzammar is one of their finest works. Orzammar lies at the heart of the Frostback Mountains, deep underground. The city arcs outward from the royal palace, which is built around a natural lava vent, continually fountaining liquid rock, which both lights and heats the entire cavern._

_The topmost tier of Orzammar is home to the noble caste, with their palaces fanning out in both directions from the court of the king, as well as the Shaperate, which serves as a repository for all dwarven knowledge._

_The lower tier is the Commons, where the merchant caste holds sway and where the finest works of Orzammar's craftsman are for sale. In the center of the river of lava, connected to the Commons by a causeway, are the Proving Grounds, a sacred arena where the dwarves, by ancient tradition, settle their disputes._

_On one side of the fiery river are the ruins of old dwarven palaces, fallen into disrepair, which the locals call Dust Town, now home to the city's casteless. On the other side of the river are the Deep Roads, which once joined the sprawling dwarven empire together, but now, after centuries of darkspawn incursions, are largely sealed off. Nearly all knowledge of this network of underground passages has been lost, even to its builders._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> It honestly shocked me the first time I got to Orzammar and head the mook at the gate refer to "King Loghain," as that's an enormous no-no in just about any monarchy. Sure, he's the only one who does it, but the point stands.
> 
> I've been sitting on this for a long time, but I'm officially labeling Heart of Courage by Two Steps from Hell as Daylen's leitmotif. Still working on themes for the others. For some reason in the entirety of the rather large Origins soundtrack, there aren't leitmotifs laid out for the various characters, although goodness knows it wouldn't be hard to make them.


	23. Orzammar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes set to work in Orzammar, and problems almost immediately arise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_The Castes  
Visitors to Orzammar should keep in mind that the hierarchies of dwarven society are much more complex than our own. It is easy to gravely insult a man simply by mistaking his position. Since this can lead to unnecessary loss of life and limbs, I will attempt to mitigate the danger for my fellow travelers._

_The society of Orzammar is divided into nobles, warriors, smiths, artisans, miners, merchants, and servants. Now, you are undoubtedly saying to yourself, “We have all those divisions among our own people.” This is a dangerous misconception. Certainly, we do have nobility, artisans, merchants, and these positions are largely inherited from our parents. However, the younger children of noblemen often choose to be artisans or soldiers. The sons of merchants may join the army, or become servants, or apprentice themselves to a craftsman. This is all freely chosen. Limited, perhaps, by the circumstances of birth, but still chosen._

_What is a matter of choice for most human folk is dictated entirely by birth for dwarves. No one may become a smith who was not born to Smith Caste parents. A servant who marries a noblewoman will never be a noble himself, and although his daughters would be nobles, his sons would be servants, for daughters inherit the caste of their mother, while sons inherit the caste of their father._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

—ROTG—

The group passed by Tapster’s, a couple of other dwarves eyeing Daylen nervously, presumably wondering whether he was going to rough them up and then drag them out by the ear to some uncertain doom. Daylen glared at them as they passed by, crossing over to the other side of the loop past the bloodstained paving stones where the political argument had turned violent.

After Legnar gave the group directions to the Diamond Quarter, the group took the long set of stairs up, pushing higher towards the top of the cavern. “So the closer you live to the surface, the higher class you are,” Alistair surmised as they entered the Diamond Quarter. “Unless you're actually  _on_  the surface.”

“Counter-intuitive, yet entirely appropriate considering what I’ve seen of dwarves so far,” Daylen said, scrubbing sweat from his forehead. “They’ve only got one city left, and they’re treating an entire section of their population as animals. If we didn’t need their help, I’d say let the darkspawn have this place.” He caught a guardsman’s attention. “Which way to the Assembly?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” the guardsman replied. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, surfacer.”

“I’m a Grey Warden, here with a treaty that obliges Orzammar to aid me against the Blight,” Daylen snapped. “I wouldn’t be in Orzammar if I wasn’t supposed to be. Which way to your blasted Assembly?” The guard pointed, and Daylen left without another word.

“Bit short with him, weren’t you?” Alistair asked, before wincing as Leliana giggled. “Going to have to watch that while we’re here.”

“No short jokes,” Leliana teased. “You two are representatives of the Grey Wardens here in Orzammar, and it would be bad if you didn’t…measure up.”

“You wouldn’t want to come up short,” Zevran agreed.

“We won’t,” Alistair promised, snickering. “The Wardens searched high and low for the best recruits they could find.”

“This is hardly the height of comedy,” Wynne interjected. Alistair broke first, letting out a belly laugh. “I am running short on patience, so please maintain some semblance of decorum!” The two Wardens were leaning against each other, laughing like hyenas as Wynne thought about what she had just said and gave an irritated sigh. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

Daylen stood up straight eventually, trying to marshal his face into a serious expression. “Oh, I needed that. Thank you.” They moved on, heading down the walkway, the odd well-dressed dwarf giving them suspicious or apprehensive glances as they passed. “Awfully welcoming folk, aren’t they?” Daylen asked.

“We’re the strangers here, and they are having an internal crisis,” Wynne pointed out. “The least we can do is be understanding.”

“Good point,” Daylen muttered.

“News of the hour,” a dwarf crier by the side of the road hollered. “Support Lord Bhelen at your peril! Evidence suggests Lord Bhelen considering widespread military draft!”

“Do the dwarfs even do that?” Daylen asked Alistair. “I thought they had strict castes.”

As if to answer his question, the crier went on. “Lord Bhelen promises radical changes that will offend the ancient Paragons! Have our traditions no value?”

“Oh.” Rather than engage with the dwarf, the group kept moving, passing several large estates and what appeared to be the front door of a palace. Another crier stood nearby, hollering to passersby.

“News of the hour: Two more clans endorse Lord Bhelen as the new king! Change is inevitable and it must come quickly!”

“Plenty of mudslinging in the streets, I see,” Zevran commented as they passed by.

“Beats murder, like we saw earlier,” Daylen replied. “Fewer questions raised that way than if you have your opponent bumped off.”

“Yes, but a good old-fashioned knifing can be so…satisfying,” Zevran said. The rogue subsided as they entered the Chamber of the Assembly.

“The Assembly is in session,” a guard by the door to the inner chamber said. “Enter quietly if you wish to observe.”

Inside, the group found more statues of the Paragons scattered around a large, circular chamber with a sunken tiered floor in the center so dwarves arrayed around the sides could all holler at whatever poor sap was in the middle. One particularly irate dwarf near the edge was currently speaking.

“Your mind has gone to dust if you think we would pass such a writ. Half our houses would go broke without the surface trade.”

“The proposal is only effective until we have a king to ensure we are respected by the surfacers!” another dwarf protested.

“Leaving you conveniently positioned to take over all contracts,” the first dwarf shot back. “I’ll see your head on a pike, first!”

The dwarf in the center of the chamber raised his voice. “Deshyrs, lords, and ladies of the Assembly: I’ve already doubled the guard to prevent violence. Must I summon more?”

“Steward Bandelor, Bhelen’s sympathizers are tying our hands with such trivialities!” the first dwarf cried. “They may as well open us to the sky!”

“Goodness knows this place could use a good airing out,” Daylen muttered.

“I suggest we put the matter to a vote,” a third dwarf suggested.

“And I suggest you have a taste of my family’s mace!”

“This is madness,” Daylen breathed, watching the arguing.

“This is politics,” Zevran replied. “In Antiva, events like this are usually followed by assassins being hired. The Crows do particularly well after arguments between nobles.”[1]

“You know, I've been thinking,” Daylen began.

“Always a dangerous prospect,” Alistair commented.

“Shush. Zevran, if you ever find yourself short of work as an assassin, you could always take up work on the other side.”

“Prevent assassinations?” The elf seemed doubtful. “Perhaps. But it is a rather difficult venture. If your charge is a target, you must succeed every time. The assassin only needs to win once.”

“Well, it's something to consider. If nothing else it would be a skill you could perform in public.”

“ _Enough!_ ” Bandelor bellowed. “The Assembly is in recess until the members can regain control of their emotions!” There were more than a few murderous glares and mutters as the nobles filed out, and the steward turned, spotting Daylen watching the proceedings. “Stone-forsaken fools and dusters…” He gestured for them to follow, stepping outside of the main chamber. “I’m sorry. This is the Assembly of the Clans. Only deshyrs and occasional guests of state are allowed in.”

“Technically I’m the latter,” Daylen replied. “Grey Wardens count as guests of state, right?”

The dwarf winced. “Forgive me, I am so exhausted that I completely forgot about the message from the gate guard.” Daylen nodded, and the steward took a slow breath, calming himself. “Welcome to Orzammar, Warden. I hope you can forgive our unrest. The loss of our king has hit us hard. Respect for your role is great, but you won’t receive a proper hearing until we have a king on the throne.”

“So who has the authority to aid me?” Daylen asked. “We’ve got a Blight going on here. The Grey Wardens need the support of the dwarves.”

“Dulin Forender, Lord Pyral Harrowmont’s man, can be found at the Harrowmont estate. It’s near here. Vartag Gavorn, Prince Bhelen’s second, is often here in the Assembly. In fact, I saw him inside, he’s probably not far. I only wish there was more I could do for you.”

Daylen nodded grimly, thanking the dwarf for the information before pulling his companions aside. “So it looks like we’re going to have to get involved with this. Nothing’s ever easy.”

“Just once I'd like to ask someone for help and hear them say, ‘Sure! Let's go right now! No strings attached,’” Alistair griped. “Who should we go to?”[2]

“Whoever will get us the troops we need the fastest,” Daylen replied. “Past that, I honestly don’t _care_ anymore. People are dying. If we don’t get this army together soon, there won’t be a Ferelden left to save.” He caught the eye of a guard. “Excuse me, have you seen a Vartag Gavorn around here?”

“Over there,” the guard grunted, gesturing with his chin.

“All right, here’s the plan,” Daylen said. “Leliana, Zevran, Morrigan, Sten, sweep the market and the tavern, find out what you can about both sides, but stay out of trouble and out of Dust Town. Wynne, Alistair, Shale, Cupcake, stay with me. Let’s see what we can find out from the source.”

Vartag Gavorn was standing nearby, wearing chainmail with an axe across his back as opposed to the showy finery the nobles were wearing. He perked up as the Wardens approached. “Warden, welcome. It is always a blessing for Orzammar to host your order.”

Daylen grunted. “You’re Vartag Gavorn?”

The dwarf bowed, but only slightly. “Top advisor to our good Prince Bhelen. What news do you bring?”

“Bad news. I need aid against the Blight, and I’m here for Orzammar’s armies.”

“Ah yes, the treaty,” Gavorn said. “I’ve seen it in the shapers’ libraries. Now, the difficulty is that the treaty only compels our _king_ , and we are sadly lacking one of those right now.”

“Perhaps you ought to read it again,” Daylen replied, pulling the scroll from his pocket. “It compels _Orzammar_. As a whole. Because when the dwarves signed this treaty, they realized that battling the Blight is more important than politics.”

“No one wishes this fight over more than Bhelen,” Gavorn said. “But while it rages, Orzammar can spare no one to combat what may or may not be a new Blight.”

“Are you implying a Grey Warden wouldn’t recognize a Blight?” Daylen asked.

“I believe you,” Gavorn said soothingly, “but what are we to do? If Bhelen followed his heart and sent his men to aid you, Harrowmont would steal his throne. We would defeat the Blight and return to find our homeland devastated by an incompetent tyrant.”

“Then I’ll have to seek my aid from Harrowmont instead,” Daylen sighed.

Gavorn’s eyes widened. “ _Wait_. We must be cautious about whom to trust, but perhaps we could find a way.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from a pocket. “Harrowmont has engaged in a campaign of bribery and coercion to ensure that every house serves him. But if a neutral party, a stranger, were to approach certain key members, perhaps with irrefutable evidence of Harrowmont’s deception…”

“Which I suppose _you_ have,” Wynne said dryly.

“I’m certain my lord prince would show his gratitude.”

Daylen grunted noncommittally. “What kind of evidence?”

“Harrowmont promised the same portion of his estate to two different deshyrs, Lady Dace and Lord Helmi. Harrowmont obviously can’t grant it to both of them, but they won’t find out until after the vote is cast.” He held out the papers. “These are copies of the promissory notes Harrowmont gave each of them. Once they see those, they should both reconsider their votes.”

“Where’d you get these?” Daylen asked, leafing through them.

“That’s not important,” Gavorn said dismissively. “If they ask, say you found them while searching the shapers’ libraries for your treaty.”

“Isn’t there someone you could report him to?”

“Normally, the shapers would handle this sort of accusation. They are the scholars who manage our laws, histories, and genealogies. They are the final arbiter of all disputes in Orzammar.”

“Sounds like the people to talk to,” Daylen concluded.

“Unfortunately, the shaper of memories is the most important among them, and his grandfather was Lord Harrowmont’s aunt’s first cousin. Obviously, we cannot expect him to offer an unbiased opinion.”

Daylen nearly dropped the papers. “He’ll hold a distant relative over his duty? Over the truth?”

“I guess I can’t expect you surfacers to understand the importance of family in Orzammar.” Daylen’s face hardened, and Gavorn went on. “The shaper is biased, and if you want Prince Bhelen’s help, you’ll have to show where _your_ loyalties lie. Will you do it?”

Daylen dropped the promissory notes in front of Gavorn. “Forget it. Tell your lord I’m not a messenger or a pawn. You insult me by implying I am here in bad faith? I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the Blight.”

“If my prince hears you swore allegiance to his enemy, he won’t be so friendly next time,” Gavorn warned. “Don’t waste my time with dithering. If you want Bhelen to support you in your surface war, you’ll have to help him take the throne.”

Daylen leaned down, his face hard. “Listen to me, you little worm. I don’t care a whit about your little succession crisis down here in this darkspawn-infested pisshole you call home. The Grey Wardens don’t demonstrate loyalty to anyone. If anything, the entire city of Orzammar is acting in bad faith by refusing us an audience and refusing to honor the ancient treaties they signed. We’ll see how long your trade with the surface lasts when word gets out that the dwarves can’t be counted on to abide by a treaty. You think things are bad for you now? How much civil unrest are you going to have to deal with when all you have to eat is lichen and nug shit? I’m not your fucking errand boy, Gavorn. So either take me to Bhelen, or I’ll see how Harrowmont treats his visitors.”

“How about we just invoke the Right of Conscription?” Alistair proposed. Gavorn’s eyes bugged out.

“On this waste of flesh?” Daylen asked. “Kind of pointless, don’t you think? The darkspawn would be picking their teeth with his toe bones inside an hour.”

“No, on Bhelen,” Alistair replied. “Or Harrowmont. Or both! Maybe the next king will have a better idea of how to treat an ally.”

“You cannot conduct business like this-” Gavorn began.

“Sorry, mate, but you blew your chance,” Daylen said. “You negotiate in bad faith with me, you don’t get another opportunity. Maybe I’ll speak with Bhelen directly, but I have nothing more to say to you.”

The Warden and his party were at the door when Gavorn broke. “All right! I’ll take you to Bhelen!” Daylen turned, still glaring at the dwarf. “I’ll need an hour to arrange it. I’ll meet you outside the Royal Palace.”

After less than a day in Orzammar, Daylen had decided that he hated the place. It wasn’t the violence in the streets, or the sanctimonious and self-important nobles too busy dickering over whose father was more historically significant, or the way the walls seemed to be leaning in as they curled towards the rocky ceiling. It wasn’t even the stench of hundreds of bodies packed into a single small city.

It was the blasted  _heat._  With the city lit by lava vents as it was, and with no breeze in an underground city beyond the hottest air rising into the Diamond Quarter, the entire city felt like the inside of a blacksmith’s forge. Daylen’s robes were clinging to him, the heavy wool soaked with sweat. Outside in Ferelden, they were invaluable in keeping out the winter chill. Inside Orzammar, they were a blasted annoyance that was bordering on crippling.

“Daylen, not to criticize,” Alistair said, running a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in sweat-soaked spikes. “But you look like an old onion.”

“I know,” Daylen groused, tugging his robes away from his skin. “I don’t think I was made for warm weather. It was rather cool in the Circle tower most of the time.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Sod this. Hold still, everyone.” Weaving a tiny tendril of magic, he loosed a restrained burst of frost that snap-cooled the air around them. There were audible sighs of relief and appreciation as the heat was pushed back, and Daylen momentarily shivered inside his robes at the sudden change. “Just don’t freeze to your armor.”

The Warden led them into the Shaperate, finding a massive library inside. “If only we had the time,” Daylen sighed, looking around. “Lost opportunities.”

“ _Thief_!” Someone bellowed from several stacks over. “Who would dare take from the Memories?”

Daylen skidded around the corner, finding an irate dwarf. “You all right?”

“Warden! I’m outraged! A thief in the Shaperate. What have we been reduced to?”

Daylen blinked at him. “Stealing, apparently. Did you get a good look at the thief?”

“I did,” the dwarf replied. “He was bald, with the most garish brand across his head. Almost like he took pride in being casteless! Imagine!” The dwarf sighed. “Ah, he’s probably in the slums somewhere. As if he’d find a buyer for a stolen tome in Dust Town. They couldn’t know the value.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Daylen promised, turning around and nearly tripping over another dwarf. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Pardon me,” the young woman said politely, brushing red hair out of her eyes. “Were you looking for a particular volume? Not that I could really help. I, um…don’t know the libraries very well. I’m just doing some research.”

“What kind of research?” Daylen asked. “I’m no shaper, but I’m something of a scholar.”

“I was looking for something about the Ortan Thaig,” she explained. “It was lost during the last Blight, and there aren’t many records left. They were a noble house once, descended from the Paragon Ortan, who composed the grand epic of the Seven Brothers and the Ortanic Symphony. My mother’s family believes they were descended from Kelana Ortan, who was training in Orzammar when the thaig fell. I’m even named for the house – Orta. Unfortunately, any records would be buried in the thaig’s ruins, somewhere in the Deep Roads.”

Daylen sighed. “I’m a Grey Warden, and while I don’t _expect_ to be going there, with my luck, I’ll probably wind up having to go there soon enough.”

Orta’s eyes widened. “A Grey Warden? Mother always said that if anyone could find the thaig, it was the Wardens. I here Prince Bhelen and Lord Harrowmont have both been sending out small teams these days. Yes, if you can find the thaig, and any records, that could do it. That could prove I’m a noble!” She paused, her eyes glistening. “It’s almost too much to hope for.”

“I’ll let you know,” Daylen said. “I’m looking for some more information on Orzammar. Is there a head librarian – er, Shaper, around here?”

“Shaper Czibor over there, with the white beard,” Orta replied, indicating a dwarf. Daylen thanked her and approached the shaper.

“When I last walked this hall, Endrin was king and Orzammar was at peace,” the shaper said. “The Memories often speak of the swiftness with which change overtakes us, but it is different to see it firsthand.” He paused, before shaking his head. “I apologize, Warden. I should not burden a stranger with such thoughts. I am Czibor, the shaper of memories.”

“How do you know who I am?” Daylen asked carefully.

“The Grey Warden’s visit has been recorded in the Memories, along with all who accompany you.”

“Oh. I had a few questions about the Memories, and this caste system Orzammar has.”

“According to legends, seven brothers founded our empire,” Czibor began immediately. “The youngest, Bloadlikk, was the wisest and was chosen king. His children formed the Noble Caste. The eldest, Kiotshett, trained his sons to defend their king. They became the Warrior Caste. Shotkyar founded the artisans, Orzatyar forged our first swords. It was Orzammar who dug the mines that became our city’s foundations. The twins, Koapar and Knakkt both founded trading houses, but Knakkt was wounded in battle. On his recovery, he swore to serve his brother’s sons.”

“Awfully pat,” Daylen muttered. “Everyone in their own little place with no complaints. And what about the Casteless?”

“The casteless descend from criminals and those repudiated by their own families,” Czibor said. “Or those who chose to go to the surface and live by human laws. They have no ancestors to guide them and no families to claim them. They should not have been born.” Daylen’s face remained blank, but his eyes darkened. “Their parents defied their shame and brought cursed children into the world. It is better they die young.”

Daylen’s reply was slow in coming, spoken delicately. “It seems awfully easy for you to dismiss them.”

“Their births are not recorded in the Memories. In Orzammar, they do not exist.”

“And those that find disgrace in their normal caste in Orzammar?”

“They are struck from the Memories and removed from their caste.”

"Wait, what?" Daylen asked. "You just...remove them from your histories?" The Shaper nodded. "Along with their crimes? So there's no record of them having existed?" The dwarf nodded again. "I see. All right then. Goodbye."

"Wait! Where are you going?"

"Away from here," Daylen replied coldly. "I have no use for people who rewrite their own history. It's just a way of ignoring your own misdeeds." He glanced over at Alistair. "I thought Loghain was bad! Why do you think that the heir apparent to the throne allegedly offed everyone ahead of him in line for the job? He probably thought he could get away with it. Just have them wiped from the records, and they never existed. Can't commit a crime against someone that doesn't exist, right? That's why you lot use Dust Town as your dumping ground." Without another word, Daylen left the Shaperate behind him.

The group reconvened at the edge of the market, near the stairs to the Diamond Quarter. Daylen spotted the others approaching as he concluded some business with a nearby merchant. “So, what did we find out?” Daylen asked, tucking the package away.

“Bhelen’s the progressive candidate,” Leliana said immediately. “Harrowmont is the traditionalist, firmly believes in the caste system and isolating Orzammar from outside influences. Bhelen believes in shaking up the old order and blurring the lines between the castes. He even married a casteless…what did they call her?”

“A ‘noble hunter,’” Zevran provided. “A social climber, of sorts. Casteless dwarven women aim to seduce a noble and bear him a son, elevating their own status and getting themselves out of Dust Town. An admirable endeavor. Bhelen’s woman has borne him a son, thus going from casteless to casteless living with a noble family. Quite the climb.”

“Impressive,” Daylen muttered.

“That ‘tis not all we found out,” Morrigan broke in. “Bhelen was the youngest of three siblings, each of whom were more likely to take the throne after their father’s death. The middle sibling killed the eldest, and was exiled to the Deep Roads. The eldest was little loved, but murdering one’s brother is still frowned upon. As if more were needed, rumor holds that Bhelen poisoned his father in an attempt to speed his own rise to the throne. That rumor, however, has no evidence that anyone has seen.”

“So he’s unpopular, but that might be a good thing, from what we’ve seen,” Daylen concluded. “And Harrowmont has made no contact with us yet?”

“Actually, he has,” Leliana said. “His man, Dulin Forender? He met us outside the Assembly Chamber, and said that if we wanted to meet with Harrowmont, we needed to fight in a Proving.”

“So more of this ‘prove your loyalty’ shite,” Daylen muttered. “Not doing it. We’ve got a meeting with Bhelen soon, and considering Harrowmont wasn’t in any more of a hurry to meet with us, I guess our path is laid out for us.” He gestured towards the stairs, and the group followed him up.

“We made a little coin, wrangling nugs for a dwarf,” Leliana continued. “They’re rather cute.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “What, the dwarves?”

“No, the nugs,” Leliana explained. “They’re adorable. I wish I could have one as a pet.” Morrigan rolled her eyes, but Daylen shrugged. “So you said Bhelen was willing to meet with us?”

“Hardly,” Daylen said dryly. “His man Gavorn wanted us to play messenger to ‘show where our loyalties lie.’ I told him we weren’t errand boys, threw a lot of diplomatic bluster in his face, and threatened to side with Harrowmont. He folded. It seems the situation in Orzammar is a little more tenuous than people would like to pretend, and Gavorn wasn’t willing to let an opportunity like that slip through his fingers.”

“You forgot the part where we debated invoking the Right of Conscription on both Bhelen and Harrowmont,” Alistair added.

“Oh, that was _inspired_ , by the way,” Daylen replied. “Congratulations on that idea.” Alistair grinned, but the warrior’s smile faded as Gavorn emerged from the Royal Palace.

“Prince Bhelen has agreed to see you,” Gavorn said stiffly. “Follow me.”

The palace was surprisingly austere considering the strong caste divisions in Orzammar. Daylen had expected more gold and gems, but most of the palace was polished stone and intricate carvings. “I am impressed, Warden,” the Prince greeted them as they entered a side-section of the palace. “Very few outsiders can convince Vartag to capitulate so easily.”

“Very few people attempt to use the Grey Wardens as a messenger service,” Daylen retorted. “I’m here to get troops to face the Blight. My interests in your little succession crisis stop there.”

“Surfacer problems,” Gavorn snorted.

“Really?” Daylen asked. “Tell me, when the Blight wipes out Ferelden, what happens to Orzammar? You can seal the doors and pretend the outside world isn’t there, but you know as well as I do it wouldn’t even be a year before the darkspawn dug their way in. When exactly is it that something on the surface becomes an Orzammar problem? How many thousands of people have to die before you take an interest?”

“The fact of the matter is,” Bhelen said, shooting a glare at Gavorn, “I genuinely do not have the authority to order Orzammar’s armies to follow you. Only the king of Orzammar can do that. Worse, I cannot even order the troops loyal to me to move to a more ready stance, lest I be accused of plotting a violent coup. Orzammar teeters on civil war now. I have no wish to shove it over the edge.”

Daylen sighed. “All right. The time I’ve spent in Orzammar hasn’t impressed me, but what I’ve heard of you tells me that you have an interest in changing the situation.”

“You refer to the caste system, the plight of the casteless?” Bhelen asked knowingly. Daylen nodded. “It is true. Orzammar is clinging to traditions five hundred years out of date. The dwarves are dying. If we are to survive as a people, we must be…pragmatic.” He paused, smiling faintly. “And it may be hypocritical of me to say this, but the nobles of Orzammar are a large part of the problem.”

Daylen grunted. “Look, I would prefer to leave a place better than I found it, but time is an issue. If I were to help you take the throne, how long would we be forced to delay our work against the Blight?”

Bhelen considered his response. “More than a week, less than six months.”

“ _Six months_?” Alistair echoed. “We don’t have that kind of time!”

“He’s right,” Daylen said grimly. “Prince Bhelen, I respect the issues you are facing, but we simply cannot wait six months for your troops.”

“Six months is a worst-case scenario,” the prince replied. “A scenario that would involve your group getting horribly lost in the Deep Roads. The odds of that are minimal.”

“Then what needs to be done?” Daylen asked.

Bhelen paused again. “Well, after you refused to help Vartag with delivering the news of Harrowmont’s treachery to his supporters, I tasked some of my own men to do the job.” Daylen bit back the ‘as you should have from the beginning’ and let the prince continue. “But it seems that Lord Dace is not in Orzammar, and he is the only one with the authority to break the deal he made with Harrowmont.”

“So in the middle of a succession crisis, the bloke runs off?” Daylen asked. “Is that wise?”

“Lord Dace is the only one with the authority to break the deal, but his daughter has his proxy and as such can vote for him in the Assembly,” Bhelen explained. “He’s currently at the lost Aeducan Thaig, leading an expedition to reclaim it. I have over a dozen scouting expeditions underway in the Deep Roads already, I can’t spare an entire other expedition’s worth of troops to go to Lord Dace as well.”

“So you need us to go,” Daylen finished. “Wonderful.” He scratched at his beard for a moment before hurriedly stopping, trying to appear dignified. “What else do you need done?” Bhelen looked confused. “I have no intention of sending my entire group into the Deep Roads on one errand. While some of my companions are working on locating Lord Dace with support from what dwarves you can spare, the rest will be on the inevitable second task you need us to perform. All I care about is getting troops to locate the Blight. I’ll do whatever it takes to get them.”

“Then we have a common goal,” Bhelen said. “We may not like each other, but the Blight is our first priority. We need absolute unity to fight against the fulcrum of true evil.”

“Which conveniently gets you exactly what you want,” Daylen replied tiredly. “Look, I’ll do what it takes to get the troops I need, but please, don’t treat me like an idiot.”

“My intentions run higher than simply taking power,” Bhelen protested. “You’ve seen for yourself. The city is a slaughterhouse. Criminals run lawless. I could never hold the throne if I allowed such chaos.”

“And that’s what else you want done,” Daylen surmised. “Criminals need killing. I can do that.”

“Jarvia and her carta are behind this bedlam,” Bhelen explained. “If you can eliminate them, it would better my chances of taking the throne. Between that and the defectors from Harrowmont’s followers, we may just be able to swing the balance far enough in our favor to break this deadlock. I promise that as king, I will send as many troops as you need to fight the darkspawn.”

“Then that is what must be done,” Daylen said.

“Unfortunately, I have little information on Jarvia,” Bhelen explained. “Her base of power is in Dust Town, the lowest part of the city, and my men have few sources there.”

“I’m familiar with the place,” Daylen said distastefully.

“Horrid, isn’t it,” Bhelen replied. “Maybe the casteless will talk more freely with a stranger.”

Daylen nodded. “Please, have what troops you can spare wait at the entrance to the Deep Roads. If you have maps to the Aeducan thaig, those would be most helpful.”

“Done,” Bhelen said immediately. “Is there anything else you need?”

The Warden thought about it a moment. “As a matter of fact, there is one other thing. My companions and I will need a place to stay. Is there a Warden compound in Orzammar?”

“You would have almost certainly passed it on the way here,” Bhelen replied. “I will send word to have it tidied up for your companions.”

“Excellent.”

"Why are you inserting yourself into Dwarven politics?" Zevran asked incredulously as they left. "I know a few things about politics. It is literally how you get yourself assassinated!"

"Then at least we'll know who's worried about us!" Daylen replied cheerfully, walking past him.

"Warden…Warden do not…" Zevran sighed heavily, muttered something in Antivan, and followed him.

"So, we're siding with Bhelen?" Alistair asked as they took the stairs down to the Commons.

Daylen scoffed. "Bhelen's a snake. But he's a survivor, and unless he's pulled off the acting job of the age, he's going to move Orzammar forward and give us the troops we need. If that means taking out a few Carta bosses and delivering some documents, I'm willing to go with that." He looked over at Alistair. "Are you?"

Alistair looked down as he thought about it, scuffing the ground with his boot. "I'm not crazy about working with him. But I trust you, Daylen."

Daylen grinned behind his beard, clapping a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Good enough, mate. You’re going to lead the group in the Deep Roads.”

Alistair blanched. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Daylen replied. “You have the ability to lead, Alistair, I’m just giving you the chance. I want you to take Leliana, Wynne, and Shale with you. I’ll take Zevran, Cupcake, Sten, and Morrigan and see what we can do about the carta.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Alistair protested.

“Alistair, even if by some twist of fate, you wind up _not_ being king, we’ll have to rebuild the Wardens, and you’ll wind up in a leadership position regardless,” Daylen pointed out. “This way, you get practice at leadership and we can do both tasks at once.”

The warrior still looked unsure, but Leliana gave him a warm smile and a nod, and Alistair stood up straight. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. You bring them all back. You’re going in alive, you better be coming back the same way. ” Daylen turned to his half of the group. “Now, let's go kick some Carta ass. Whoever can kick the dwarf the farthest doesn't have to buy at the pub later."

Zevran arched an eyebrow. "You're willing to drink there?"

"Cheap beer, vomit, and urine." He sighed. "Smells like freedom."

"You mystify me sometimes," Alistair said.

—ROTG—

“Quite the impression, Warden,” a redheaded female dwarf leaning against the bar said as they entered the tavern. “Welcome to Tapsters.” Daylen grunted in reply. “I’m Corra, your hostess. Anyone else you going to drag out of my tavern today?”

“Not unless you’ve got someone else causing trouble,” Daylen said. “I need a drink, and maybe some information, if you have it.”

“I guess you’re not asking for anything official,” Corra replied. “Or else you’d be at the Shaperate. But I can certainly give you a mole’s-eye view. And with fifty-two types of ale, seventeen types of mead, and a dozen imported wines, we should be able to serve your needs. What’ll you have?”

“A pint of decent ale and the best way to get in touch with the carta,” Daylen said bluntly.

“You’re looking for trouble,” Corra remarked, pouring out a pint. Daylen dropped a few silvers on the bar, and she nodded. “Nobody ‘gets in touch’ with the carta. Nobody without a death wish, at least. You want to wind up in the lava, go to Dust Town and start asking those questions.” She pointed over Daylen’s shoulder. “Meantime, you should have a talk with that dwarf in the corner over there. He’s been on edge for a while. Might be best if he weren’t here anymore.”

Daylen looked at the pint in front of him. “Hello, beer! I'm Daylen. Nice to meet you!” He picked up the tankard, still speaking to the beverage. “Darling, we're about to make each other  _very_  happy.” He took a deep pull on the drink, before pausing, setting the tankard down and wiping his beard. “Yeah, I’m not drinking that again.”

“Something wrong?” Zevran asked, deeply amused. "Do you know that dwarven ale isn't truly ale at all? And it's black. Marvelous!"

“Zevran, I never liked you,” Daylen groaned, scraping his tongue against his teeth. “Eugh! What is _in_ that?”

“The less you know, the better,” Zevran replied.

“I do not even want to think from what manner of substance a cave-dwelling people would create their spirits," Morrigan commented.

“Let’s get out of here,” Daylen said. “Where’s that dwarf Corra wanted us to talk to?” Zevran spotted him in the corner, staring suspiciously at everyone in the tavern. Daylen left the ale behind, approaching the man slowly. “You all right?”

“Get away from me!” the dwarf cried, his eyes darting back and forth. “You’ll change, like the rest. Monsters hidden in all my friends!”

Daylen looked closer at the dwarf. “Is this darkspawn corruption or just madness? I’m not sensing the Taint.”

“There’s things older than darkspawn,” the dwarf warned. “And once you’re in the story, they _find_ you. See, I found copies. All from the same pen and older than the ones in song! Dormant, my arse!” He dropped a bundle of scrolls on the table, shoving them at Daylen. “Take them! I want out!” He sprinted for the door. “I won’t disappear chasing a lie! I won’t!”

“What a peculiar fellow,” Zevran said idly as the door closed behind the feeling dwarf. “Do you suppose that’s what dwarven ale does to you?”

Daylen was examining the scrolls, his eyes dark. “This is bad.”

“What?” Morrigan asked. “More delays?”

“Not exactly,” Daylen replied, scrounging around in his satchel. “You remember that dead knight we found in the ruins, out in the Brecelian Forest?”

“Of course,” Morrigan said.

“It mentioned something called Gaxkang, and these scrolls mentioned ‘the Unbound,’” Daylen recalled, spreading out a few scrolls he had picked up at the Circle during the crisis and at Haven. “It seemed familiar at the time, but I couldn’t place it. Now I remember. Gaxkang the Unbound was one of four demons known as the Forbidden Ones.”

Zevran leaned closer. “Not paragons of virtue, I take it.”

“Ancient demons, older than anything any Tevinter mage ever encountered and survived to talk about,” Daylen explained. “And bloody evil, even for demons. They’re the ones who first taught blood magic to mortals. They’re still heard about in tavern songs and legends, but I never believed they actually existed.”

“And you think one of them is running around?” Zevran asked.

“I think it’s doing more than running, if those two dead adventurers and the screaming dwarf were any indication,” Daylen replied. “If it’s true, there’s an ancient, incredibly evil demon in Denerim, under the name ‘Vilhm Madon,’ and for some reason, it’s putting out stories about its existence.”

“Why would they do that?” Zevran asked.

Morrigan broke in. “An unbound revenant. Most revenants are demons of desire or pride, bound to the body they inhabit and limited to that body’s abilities. An unbound revenant has had centuries or longer to adjust to our world, with all the strength in our world that such a time implies. But they cannot halt the progression of the ages, and must take new bodies periodically.”

“Next time we’re in Denerim, we should tell the Templars,” Daylen declared. “Let them handle it. We’ve got bigger problems. Speaking of which, let’s go carta hunting.”

He was gathering up the scrolls when another dwarf approached them. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but are you the Grey Warden?”

Daylen looked up, spotting a noble dwarf standing nearby. “I’m one of them, yes. Word travels fast, I guess.”

“You don’t get far as the youngest and most out-spoken member of the Assembly without keeping an ear to the Stone,” the dwarf replied. “I heard there was a Grey Warden in town. And no offense, but you kind of stand out. Lord Denek Helmi, honored deshyr of the Orzammar Assembly and terrible disappointment to my esteemed mother, who doesn’t like me spending time in taverns,” the dwarf introduced himself. “I wanted to thank you for informing me of the offense against my family.”

Daylen paused, glancing at his companions in confusion. “Beg pardon? I didn’t do anything like that.”

Helmi’s eyes narrowed. “So it _wasn’t_ you who sent that servant with the promissory notes about the fraudulent deals Lord Harrowmont made with my family?”

Daylen’s face twisted. “That _rat_. No, it wasn’t. Please, have a seat, let me explain.” The dwarf eased into a chair opposite Daylen. “I’m here to get troops against the Blight. Orzammar is obliged to aid me, but without a king nobody has the authority to order troops to fight the Blight. Bhelen’s man Gavorn wanted me to play messenger boy with those promissory notes to prove my loyalty or some such nonsense. I told him to pack sand, that I’d speak with Bhelen himself or nobody. I didn’t anticipate them saying _I_ sent those notes.”

“Dishonest, but not uncommon in Orzammar,” Helmi replied. “About what we have come to expect from a man like Gavorn or Bhelen.”

Daylen grunted. “Is Bhelen what he claims to be? A progressive?”

“In a sense,” Helmi allowed. “He regards the caste system as outdated, as well as many other things Orzammar’s traditions hold dear.”

“And what do you think?”

Helmi shrugged. “He may have a point. On the surface, there are no castes, and it works fine. Am I right, Warden?”

“Things are hardly equal on the surface, but at least people generally do have the opportunity to rise above their station,” Daylen admitted. “The current queen was a commoner, but the vast majority of people will most likely never see that kind of advancement. Your views on caste must be controversial in the Assembly.”

“Very much so,” Helmi said proudly. “I guess someone already told you I was good-for-nothing, drinking my life away at Tapsters. Or did they just leave off at ‘greatest shame to ever fall upon the Assembly?’ I’ve always liked that one.”

“Actually, I hadn’t heard of you at all,” Daylen replied.

“I…oh.” Helmi paused. “Well, I suppose that’s a refreshing change, if nothing else. You know, most smiths and tavern-keeps would make decent deshyrs if we gave them the chance and a seat in the Assembly. Orzammar is so mired in tradition that no one bothers asking if the castes are even necessary."

“Because to them, they are,” Daylen pointed out. “If these nobles didn’t make sure the majority of Orzammar’s population could never rise above their station, their own positions would be far less assured.”

“A man with some sense,” Helmi agreed. “Finally. You may be just what we need in Orzammar.”

“If you were so in favor of change, why were your votes in the traditionalist’s camp?”

Helmi sighed. “Well, I doubt either candidate has been outside the Diamond Quarter in his life, but Lord Harrowmont seems a bit more…forgiving. Prince Bhelen is brilliant, I’ll give him that. And he’s subtle as sin. But I don’t think anything in Orzammar matters to him more than winning. And how you do matters as much as what you do.”[3]

“So I’ve seen,” Daylen murmured. “Still, a chance to shake things up like that is a chance worth taking. Will you switch your vote to Bhelen?”

“I plan to, even after his men pretended they were sent by you,” Helmi promised. “I don’t like him, but if any of his promises turn out to be true, we might just come out ahead.”

—ROTG—

Alistair’s group had met the expeditionary unit Bhelen had ordered to accompany them and were about to enter the Deep Roads. Unfortunately, a group of dwarves were blocking the entrance. “What’s this?” their commander asked as they approached. “A human?” He glanced at one of his men. “Did we make these tunnels tall enough for humans?” The dwarf shrugged in response, and the commander turned back to Alistair. “I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you past the front lines without a deshyr’s permission, and I’ve heard nothing of any new patrols scheduled to leave today.”

Alistair rooted through his pockets, finding the passes he had been given. “Would you prefer one from Lady Dace or one from Prince Bhelen?”

The commander took the passes, looking them over. “You had best be careful. The darkspawn have pulled back, but they are down there. Either we finally have the edge, which I doubt, or the beasts are building up numbers for the next attack.”

“Er, actually, they’ve attacked already,” Alistair replied. “On the surface. That’s why you’ve been seeing fewer of them.”

“The surface!” one of the other dwarves exclaimed. “But I thought the vermin never went that far up except-”

“Except during Blights,” the commander finished. “Ancestors save us if that’s what’s happening.”

“It’s what’s happening, all right,” Alistair assured him. “I’m a Grey Warden. We know these things. Darkspawn the only danger in these tunnels?”

“Of course not,” the commander scoffed. “Down here, you’re bound to run into giant spiders, deepstalkers, and other vermin.”

“Charming,” Alistair replied. “Well, best we get underway. If we’re not back, we went to Aeducan Thaig, looking for Lord Dace.”

—ROTG—

Daylen’s group was making poor progress. Nobody in the Commons had any leads on the carta, beyond ‘Dust Town’ and ‘casteless thugs.’ It was only when the Warden spotted several such thugs shaking down a shopowner that their luck began to turn.

“So, I been hearing rumors that a certain wine merchant is falling behind on his payments,” the lead thug was saying.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” the merchant protested. “I pay my expenses-”

“What about the expenses your good friend Jarvia incurs when providing your protection?” Daylen’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded to Zevran, the group slowly closing on the thugs. “It’s not easy ensuring nothing bad happens, that no one decides to just…burn everything in your store.”

“Wait for them to go inside,” Daylen said quietly as the merchant pleaded with the thugs. “We can do a little good and get some information while we’re at it.”

“Jarvia’s not happy with your promises, old man,” the thug snarled. “Now, let’s go inside and see what you’ve been holding back!”

The Warden’s party waited a few moments before following the carta thugs inside, finding the leader with his axe drawn and ready to swing at the merchant. “I’m sorry,” Daylen said, his staff already in his hand, “are you closed?”

“Well, well, looks like we have a visitor,” the leader commented, leaning his axe on his shoulder and glaring at the shopkeeper. “Friend of yours?”

“You…g-get out of here,” the shopkeeper ordered. “This is private business.”

“Looks an awful like like extortion from where I’m standing,” Daylen replied calmly. “See, I’m kind of nosy like that, gets me into all sorts of trouble.”

“An understatement, to be sure,” Sten muttered to Morrigan.

“If only he could mind his own business,” Morrigan sighed.

“Please, don’t get involved with this,” the shopkeeper begged. “You don’t know what they’re like!”

“Then allow me to make some introductions,” the thug broke in. “These are dangerous times in Orzammar, stranger.”

“That they are,” Daylen growled. “Murders in the streets, protection rackets…”

“Lucky us, the merciful Jarvia is offering protection from the chaos,” the thug went on. “You’re wearing some fancy stuff there. Might make you a target. So if you want the carta’s guarantee of safety, it’s yours for the reasonable price of ten gold sovereigns. Or I can’t say what might happen.”

Daylen arched an eyebrow. “They don’t pick you boys for your brains, I take it. What kind of lunatic would follow several thugs into a store when they obviously intend to commit some manner of unpleasantness to whoever’s inside?”

“I ask myself that every time you get us into trouble,” Zevran commented.

“When I got here, Orzammar got a lot more dangerous.” Without moving, Daylen activated several of his showier defensive spells, a mage shield springing into place and mana beginning to coalesce around him as his skin hardened. Frost gathered around his staff, sparks arcing around the tip. “So how about you do me a favor, and I don’t brutally murder the lot of you for trying to shake me down?”

“Whoa, whoa, all right, you win,” the dwarf said, sheathing his axe. “I’m not gonna die for ten lousy sovereigns.”

“First good sense you’ve shown today,” Daylen replied. “Where’s Jarvia?”

“We don’t know,” the thug pleaded. Daylen sighed, taking a step forward. “I swear! None of us have ever even met her! We just get our orders and make our drop-offs at a house in Dust Town!”

“Not uncommon,” Zevran said to the Warden. “Most low-level criminals never meet the head of the organization.”

“Well, then, it looks like today is your lucky day,” Daylen declared. “If you boys are smart, you won’t be anywhere near Dust Town any time soon. Where’s this house?” The dwarf described the location and how to get there. “All right. Get lost.”

“Ancestors bless you for saving my poor store,” the shopkeeper said as the thugs fled. “I don’t know how to express my gratitude. My name is Figor.”

“You know anything about this Jarvia?” Daylen asked. “I’m…well, you might call it hunting.”

“I’ve never met her, of course,” Figor replied. “They say she never leaves Dust Town. She’s the one directing this depravity. Since good King Endrin died, they’re getting bolder. They used to be a problem only in Dust Town, but now they’re in the Commons, shaking honest men down for coin.”

“So, nothing we didn’t already know,” Daylen muttered. “All right, thank you.”

—ROTG—

The deepstalker squeaked as it impacted the wall, and Shale roared, barreling down the tunnel. “By the Stone,” one of the dwarves accompanying them marveled. “No wonder the Wardens are so fearsome, with golems to support them.”

“Shale’s one of a kind,” Alistair replied, kicking a dead deepstalker out of the way and pausing. “There’s darkspawn about.”

“There’s always darkspawn about down here,” a dwarven warrior scoffed as Shale crushed a deepstalker under a stone fist and continued the rampage. “It’s the sodding Deep Roads.”

The darkspawn Alistair sensed turned out to be a handful of genlocks bearing a ragged mix of maces and shortbows that easily fell to a golem, a Warden, an archer, a mage, and a half-dozen dwarves angry enough to chew steel and spit nails. Alistair signaled the dwarves to stay back as Shale ripped a stalagmite off the ground, hurling it overhand like a javelin and spearing two genlocks through the midsection with it. Fireballs and arrows from the ranged fighters in Alistair’s party felled more of the darkspawn before the Warden could even think about charging. Several of the dwarves drew shortbows or crossbows, bolts and arrows snatching more genlocks off their feet as the rest charged right into Shale’s fists and Alistair’s sword. As the last of them dropped, mostly in pieces, Alistair wiped tainted blood from Duncan’s blade and sheathed it.

“Let’s push on,” the Warden ordered, glancing at the dwarf in charge of the expeditionary field unit. “Nevin, I don’t mean to keep you out of the fight, but have your troops ever worked alongside a mage?”

“We’ll make do,” Nevin replied. “You Wardens are good folk, we’ve got your backs. Been a while since I fought with one of you. What was his name. Doocan, Dunca…something like that.”

Alistair froze. “You knew Duncan?”

“I met him, sure,” Nevin shrugged. “Good man. Solid. He knows what we go through in the Deep Roads.”

“Knew,” Alistair said quietly.

“Not many do, even the ones who live close,” Nevin went on. “You have to be on the front lines. He fell?”

“About a year ago,” Alistair replied. “He was my mentor.”

“Sorry to hear that, Warden,” Nevin said sincerely. “Let’s honor his memory with a few hundred dead darkspawn, eh?”

Clutches of darkspawn were no match for a dozen skilled fighters in tight quarters like the darkspawn-dug tunnels that branched through and between the spacious avenues of the Deep Roads. The group came across a number of crafting reagents a handful of useful salvage, although Alistair strongly debated over tossing a bloodied bag of some demonic creature’s limbs in the cart before finally shrugging and hoping Daylen would know what to do with them.

Aeducan Thaig was probably a lovely place, once. By the time Alistair and his companions arrived, the thaig had been half-crushed by rockfall, wrecked by darkspawn attacks and occupation, and was deeply infested with a horde of deepstalkers that were currently swarming Lord Dace and his bodyguards.

As Shale crushed the last one with a stomp, the golem’s craggy face twisting into a satisfied smile, Alistair flicked his sword back and forth to get the blood off and wiped it down. “I do hope one of you is Lord Anwer Dace,” he said.

“That I am,” the dwarf with the nicest armor replied. “You pulled us from a tight spot, friend. You have my gratitude, but what’s a human doing out here?”

Alistair pulled out the promissory notes. “Looking for you, as a matter of fact. You ought to have a look at these. Apparently, Lord Harrowmont is trying to cheat your family.”

Dace pulled off his helmet, revealing snowy-white hair and a beard surrounding a weathered face. “What are you talking about? I’ve dealt with Harrowmont many times and he’s always been forthright. I’m not ungrateful for your assistance, but I hope you have some evidence to back such an accusation.”

“Well, take a look at these,” Alistair offered, holding out the notes. “Just don’t ask where I got them from.”

“I don’t understand, what could…” Dace trailed off as he examined the notes. “These are the terms of a deal we made with Lord Harrowmont, all right, but…” his eyes widened. “The charlatan! He’s promised the exact same land to Helmi!”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Alistair said.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Dace replied. “I owe you twice now. My life, and my family’s fortune.”

“Will you tell your daughter not to vote for Lord Harrowmont?” Alistair asked.

“We will certainly _not_ support a man who would use my family like that,” Dace said firmly. “I will tell everyone I know what a wretched trick Harrowmont tried to play.” He signaled his men. “I must return to Orzammar _now_ , to sort this out. My men need healing and I want to look into this. Do you wish to travel with us?”

“We have a healer with us,” Alistair replied. “Wynne, could I ask you to look after these men?” He looked over. “Wynne?”

“She’s way ahead of you,” Leliana explained, pointing at Wynne busily healing a dwarf’s injured arm. “Are there any other dwarves out here?”

“Only those Legion maniacs, and they wouldn’t be in this thaig,” Dace replied.

“Legion?” Leliana echoed, confused.

“Legion of the Dead,” Alistair supplied.

“An independent company of soldiers,” Nevin explained. “Anyone who can bear arms can join, no matter what he’s done or how addled he is. They hold a funeral when they join and swear their only goal is a glorious death. Fearsome warriors, but crazy.”

“We’d best head back,” Dace broke in. “It will take days to get back to Orzammar.”

“Just out of curiosity, what’s on the surface above us?” Alistair asked. “It took us a few days to get here.”

Nevin shrugged. “Our maps aren’t aligned the same way as yours, but if my memory holds correctly? We’re under your Waking Sea.” Alistair sputtered. “Don’t worry, we’re safe. There’s at least a half-mile of rock above our heads, and the Deep Roads don’t leak. There have been rumors that a few lost thaigs have flooded after centuries, but nobody believes those anyway.”

—ROTG—

Daylen kicked the door in. “All right, all you carta, it’s time to-” The mage broke off as he saw the couple cowering, half-covered by a ratty bedspread and clothes strewn across the floor. “Oh. I…excuse me.” He fished around in his pocket, setting a pair of sovereigns on the floor. “Terribly sorry about the door and the interruption. Do carry on.” The others backed up, the Warden picking the door up off the floor and setting it back in the frame on his way out. “Wrong house.”

“To say the least,” Zevran agreed. “Unless the carta is far more fun than I had expected.”

“Foolish, to think that those thugs would give us the proper information,” Morrigan sighed. “We spared their lives, yet we are no closer to finding our prey.”

Daylen sighed, but nodded his agreement. “You’re right. Zevran? Sten? Any experience in this sort of field?”

“No,” Sten replied. “Hunting criminals and insurgents is the task of the Ben-Hassrath. Our priests.”

Zevran shrugged. “Such groups rarely tolerate challenges to their power. If they know we are looking for them? They’ll find us.”

Daylen paused. “Well in that case, let’s get out of here. No sense in waiting around.”

 —ROTG—

_The Casteless  
The caste system in Orzammar includes many groups of privilege--the nobility and the warriors above all others, but to a lesser degree the merchants and the smiths and the miners. Tradition establishes a clear hierarchy. But as in any culture with an upper class, there is also a clear underclass. These unfortunates, the so-called “casteless,” are believed to be descendants of criminals and other undesirables. They have been looked down upon since Orzammar's foundation. They have taken up residence in a place called “Dust Town,” a crumbling ruin on the fringe of Orzammar's common areas._

_Orzammar society considers these casteless lower than even the Servant Caste (indeed, the casteless are not allowed to become servants, as it is too honorable a position). They are seen as little better than animals, their faces branded at birth to mark them as the bastard children of the kingdom. Their home district, little more than a slum, is a haven for crime, organized and otherwise. Orzammar's guards seemingly cannot be bothered to patrol its streets. The best that most casteless dwarves can hope for is a life at the whim of a local crime lord, ended abruptly by violence or an overabundance of toxic lichen ale._

_Even so, there is some hope for the casteless, a dangling rope that offers a way up into greater Orzammar society. Since a dwarf's caste is determined by the parent of the same sex, the male child of a nobleman is part of that noble's house and caste. Strangely, it is acceptable for casteless women to train in the arts of courtly romance to woo nobles and warriors; they are known as “noble hunters.” Any male born from such a union is considered a joyous event, considering the low rate of dwarven fertility. The mother and entire family are then taken in by the father's house, although they retain their caste._

_The dwarves we know on the surface are also considered casteless once they leave Orzammar, although this is only relevant to those who return--if they are allowed to return at all. Dwarves who leave for the surface (the “sun-touched,” as they're often called behind their backs) lose their connection to the Stone and the favor of the ancestors, and thus are worthy of little more than pity, for upon dying they are said to be lost to the Stone forever. Put that way, it seems a sad existence indeed._

_\--From Stone Halls of the Dwarves by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fails to amaze me how both sides of the conflict in Orzammar expect you to bust your ass to prove your loyalty to them, when the Grey Wardens are explicitly supposed to be neutral. Seriously, it's not like Bhelen couldn't slip someone some money to just pass on the promissory notes, faked or not.
> 
> The segment about Aeducan Thaig being under the Waking Sea comes from the properly-aligned Deep Roads Map that HigheverRains put together, viewable at: https://higheverrains.tumblr.com/post/159293575853/deep-roads-map-v2-here-it-is-the-updated. Seriously, go check it out, but pack a lunch, because she's got an absolutely amazing amount of work on the DA meta and theories that I'm still digging through.
> 
> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Pirates of the Caribbean. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Mass Effect 2. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3Person of Interest. [ return to text ]


	24. Two Lines, No Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having violated one of the most important rules of tabletop gaming (never split the party), we switch back and forth between our two groups as Alistair goes rooting around in the Deep Roads and Daylen plays Batman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_Life in Orzammar  
The dwarves of Orzammar are quite unlike those found in most human cities. Although Orzammar derives its vast wealth from trade with human kingdoms, all dwarves who come to the surface to trade are stripped of their position in society. Dwarven merchants are so ubiquitous in human cities that many people labor under the impression that all dwarves are merchants, or that their whole race worships coin and trade. But these surface dwarves are atypical creatures, the ones willing to give up all ties to their kin and sacrifice their rank in order to conduct business._

_Below ground, the dwarves are a people obsessed with honor--their own, and that of their family. Most nobles incorporate chainmail even into formal gowns, because slights and insults often turn deadly._

_They are a people who revere excellence and strive to achieve it in all things. Even members of the Servant Caste have been elevated to Paragons, usually posthumously, in recognition of remarkable service._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

—ROTG—

“Are all Warden accommodations like this?” Zevran asked as the group entered the compound. They dropped their packs in separate rooms, before reconvening in a central sitting room that appeared to be used for planning or conferences.

“Wouldn’t know,” Daylen replied. “I was a Warden for all of a few hours before the Battle of Ostagar. Alistair would know.”

Zevran noted the mage’s grim expression and nudged him. “They will be fine.”

“They should be back by now, is all,” Daylen sighed. “The delay has me worried.”

“There is little we are able to do from here, so tell me, Warden: what do you plan to do if Bhelen is suddenly assassinated before the crisis is resolved?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Daylen replied flatly. “Even if Harrowmont took the throne, he’d be obligated to fulfill the treaty. Sure, Bhelen would probably be the more effective ruler, but he’s the type of noble that assumes that his heritage guarantees his authority rather than, you know, any sort of display of leadership ability.”

Zevran coughed guiltily. “Yet your plan to make Alistair king relies on the Fereldan nobility feeling that way.”

Daylen paused. “Well I never said I _wasn’t_ a hypocrite.” The elf snorted. “You think that Leliana will like the present?”

“The nug?” The assassin looked at the crated creature dubiously as it squeaked plaintively. “I think that Leliana will find it adorable. Even with those feet.”

The mage nodded fervently. “I know, right? They’re like _hands_.”

Zevran stared at the creature a moment longer, before shaking his head. “I still say you paid too much for it.”

“It was worth it,” Daylen replied. “Considering how much we got for all the gear we’ve salvaged from Carta thugs just since we’ve been here? It’s well worth it. Besides, it wasn’t _that_ much. Forty silver will get him a few meals and a blanket.”

“And if anyone finds out that he has money, they may rob him for it out of resentment or desperation,” Morrigan pointed out.

“And there’s no way to fix the overall issue of the slums that they live in by ourselves, so we alleviate the issue where we can,” Daylen shot back. “It may not be much of a difference overall, but it’s something. You can’t change the world overnight.”

“So what’s our next move?” Zevran asked.

“I think that expecting the carta to come to us here in the Diamond Quarter might be pushing it,” Daylen replied. “Walking up here and try to slit our throats might be a bit presumptuous even with the city as unstable as it is. So we’re going to make ourselves nice and visible in Dust Town.”

“Make ourselves as big a target as possible?” The elf surmised. “That should work. Not…addressing the threat we pose would make Jarvia lose face.”

“Well, shall we go get ourselves killed?” Morrigan asked, before pausing. “Never did I believe such things would come out of my mouth.”

“Too right. Sten!” The Qunari appeared from the room he had claimed. “We’re on the move. Leave your pack, combat loads only.” The warrior nodded, stepping back into his room and emerging a moment later with his sword strapped across his back.

Back in Dust Town, the group moved through the slum, offering help and healing where they could, and asking quietly for information on the carta as they went. Most of the dusters clammed up when Daylen prodded them on how to find Jarvia, and it was only when they found Nadezda again that they finally began making progress. “What brings you back here, _salroka_?” The dwarf asked. “Didn’t get enough of the architectural beauty of Dust Town? You need ol’ Nadezda to play tour guide?”

“Actually, I was looking for some information, Nadezda,” Daylen said quietly. “You know Jarvia?”

“Know her?” The dwarf scoffed. “I used to run with her. Jarvia took over the carta not more than a year ago, and already she’s got every duster with both legs bearing swords for her.”

“How does someone go about finding her?”

Nadezda grunted. “Won’t be easy. She’s gotten real careful since Beraht died, real powerful.” At Daylen’s blank look, she shook her head. “Sorry. You weren’t around for that. Beraht headed the carta before her, until some duster who snuck into the Proving cut his sodding head off. She took over after that, and she’s not messing around. She’s got carta members all carrying these finger-bone tokens. She scratches some mark into them, so she’ll know they came from her.”

“But there is a central base,” Daylen pressed. “It’s a definite location.”

“There’s doors to her base all over the city, but only one is ever open at a time, and if you show up without a token, you’ll never know it was there.”

Daylen groaned. “Joy. This just got more complicated. Where do I find one of these tokens?”

“Can’t help you there, _salroka_ ,” Nadezda admitted. “The carta members keep them real tight. I’ve seen one smash his with his dying breath.” She paused. “But…that’s worth something, right? Maybe just a little…”

Daylen thumbed out another handful of silver from his pouch. “I’ll give you ten silver. If you can answer another question, I’ll double that. There’s a protection racket up in the commons. Some low-level thugs, nobody who knows how to find Jarvia, but they said they were making drop-offs at a place here in Dust Town. The location they gave us was a bust, but there has to be a place. You know where it is?”

Nadezda smiled faintly. “That I do. That duster who killed Beraht? Her noble-hunter sister got herself and her mother got moved up to the Diamond Quarter. Their old house got taken over by the Carta. It’s over there.” She looked Daylen in the eye. “But _be careful_. Chances are they won’t be happy to see you.”

Daylen pressed the additional silver into her hand. “Take care of yourself, all right?”

“I’ll think of you when I go to bed with a full stomach,” Nadezda promised.

Daylen nodded, looking back at his companions. “Let’s get to work.”

The door to the house Nadezda had pointed them to opened easily and silently. Inside the building’s tiny sitting room, the ratty furniture had been mostly moved to the side of the room, and half a dozen dwarves in leathers were waiting for them. “Well, look what we have here,” the leader said. “Jarvia said you were looking for trouble. Congratulations, you found it.”

“So did you,” Daylen replied as the dwarves drew. The Warden sent out a blast of mental energy that staggered most of the dwarves, buying enough time to draw steel and engage. The group was outnumbered, but Cupcake evened up the odds a moment later when he violently removed a crossbow-wielding dwarf from the scene. Blood sprayed as Zevran’s blade swept the leader’s sword out of his hand and took several fingers with it, the spray blinding another dwarf moments before Sten’s sword took off his head. Morrigan and Daylen were hosing down the remaining three dwarves with lightning and ice, flesh burning and armor shattering under the magical assaults.

Zevran was pressing the edge of his sword into the leader’s throat as the last corpse hit the floor. “Don’t kill me! Sodding ancestors, what do they teach you on the surface? You fight like a bleedin’ archdemon!”

“How would you know?” Daylen asked. “You ever fought one before?”

The dwarf stared at him, clutching at his bleeding hand. “Obviously not! Does anyone see my fingers?” Cupcake perked up, nosing around in the filthy apartment as the dwarf surveyed the carnage. “Sweet bloody Stone, look at them all!”

Daylen thumped his staff on the floor, and ice began crawling up the dwarf’s legs, binding him in place. “Tell me how to find Jarvia, or you get to join them.”

“The base is below the city,” the dwarf babbled. “You can get to it through the wall of the third house on this row.” He reached for his belt, and Zevran shifted the blade to the dwarf’s throat a fraction of an inch, and the dwarf gingerly fished a token out of a pouch on his belt. “Put this token,” he said, holding it out as he pressed the wreckage of his other hand against his leathers, “through the slot, and it’ll open.” Daylen pocketed the token, and the dwarf looked hopeful. “Will…will you let me go now? Please, I have a kid! I got no other way to bring in coin!”

“Depends,” Daylen said, gesturing to Zevran. “Cupcake?” The dog walked over as the elf lowered his sword, pausing in front of the dwarf and spitting out the missing fingers. “You want those back on there, or not?”

The dwarf was stunned that the people who had just crippled him and killed most of his friends would offer healing, but after a half-hour’s work, the duster was gingerly flexing the reattached digits. “You get to live,” Daylen said, “but I should warn you – you don’t want to be at Jarvia’s when we get there.” The Warden jerked his head at the door. “Get out of here.”

The dwarf boggled at him. “Really? Oh, thank you. How do they say it? The ancestors have shown their favor. Bless you!” The dwarf made a hasty exit, and a few minutes of inspired looting later the four dragged their haul to the local black market merchant.

In the interests of cleaning up the streets, of course. The money they got for it was simply a bonus.

They were regrouping outside the merchant’s shop when they bumped into a heavily-branded dwarf in leathers. “What do you want, Warden?” the dwarf demanded. “You’re out of your element down here.”

“Beg pardon?” Daylen said, baffled. “What makes you think I’m looking for anything?”

The thug chuckled. “I’m no fool. Nobody just wanders around in Dust Town. You’re here looking for _me,_ and I don’t like it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m after bigger game than you.”

“You’ve walked into a sodding fight, Warden, and I’ve already passed your stupid tome along. Too bad for you!” The thug’s daggers had barely cleared their sheathes before Zevran had impaled him twice, the weapons clattering to the floor as Zevran twisted his blades and ripped them free from the dying dwarf.

“Fan of yours?” the assassin asked, wiping his blades off.

“Apparently not,” Daylen replied, still shocked at how quickly the dwarf had died. “That was impressive, Zevran.”

“I am _ridiculously_ awesome, at times,” the elf said proudly. “I did promise to protect you.”

“Could this dwarf be the thief that scholar was searching for?” Morrigan asked, flipping the corpse over with her staff.

“Entirely possible,” Daylen replied. “He fits the description that shaper gave us. And he claims he already sold it.” The mage patted down the corpse, finding a crumpled betting receipt in the thug’s pocket. “I guess he’s been to the Provings lately. Didn’t win, considering he doesn’t have any coin on him.” Daylen pocketed the receipt, shrugging. “We’ll have to look into it later.”

“We’re going to be facing…well, probably the entire carta,” Zevran said as they approached the door the dwarf had directed them to. “Should we wait until Alistair returns, and attack with our full forces?”

Daylen shook his head. “The longer we wait, the more time we give them to relocate, fortify their position, or hunt us.” He paused. “But you do have a point about full forces.”

—ROTG—

“You return,” Bhelen said as they were shown into the room. Gavorn was standing off to the side, glaring at Daylen. Clearly the last meeting had prompted Bhelen to give his second an attitude adjustment. “I take it you were successful?”

“Partly,” Daylen replied. “We have located the carta base, but I came to see if you had any forces you could spare. We’ll be facing the entire carta, and while I _believe_ we could take them on our own…”

“You would like some of my men to support you,” Bhelen finished. “Unfortunately my men are spread far too thin as it is. Most of the forces I had left went with your companions into the Deep Roads.”

Daylen nodded. “I had expected as much. Ah well. I suppose we’ll be off to clean up the mess, then.”

“I should hope so,” Bhelen said.

—ROTG—

The group stood in front of the door to the carta base, a solid slab of stone with no visible handle or hinges. There was a small slot concealed in a fold of the stone, just big enough for a finger. Daylen fished out the token the dwarf had given them, sliding it through the slot.

Nothing happened.

Daylen groaned. “I’m gonna find that dwarf and break-” The door unlocked with an audible click. “Ah.” The door led them directly into a narrow tunnel, unfinished dirt under their feet and a low ceiling pushing the group to a half-crouch. “Cupcake, you smell any dwarven jackasses up ahead?” The dog sniffed the air, before pausing and growling quietly. “Take that as a yes. Good boy. Remind me to rustle up a big juicy bone for you later.” He looked over his shoulder at Zevran. “There’s got to be some sort of underground cattle or something that the dwarves eat, right?”

“Is this really a good time?” Zevran asked.

“Good point. Let’s go.” The group duck-walked forward, pausing as Sten’s helmet clanged against the low ceiling, the warrior grunting more out of surprise than pain. Daylen looked back. “Sten, you all right back there?” The Qunari nodded, removing his helmet and crouching lower. “Next time we’ll get a bigger tunnel.”

“There’s a joke in there someplace,” Zevran muttered.

Thankfully, the tunnel widened and the ceiling raised soon afterwards, and the group straightened up as they passed into a thankfully well-lit abandoned mining tunnel. A door set into the wall at the end of the tunnel opened up into a clean if empty room. “Huh. I wonder how much of Orzammar has really been abandoned,” Daylen mused. “I can’t imagine the city is very stable if there’s all these empty tunnels and buildings under the city.” Cupcake growled again, and Daylen fell silent, signaling his companions.

Another half-dozen carta thugs were waiting for them ahead, one eyeing them suspiciously. “What’s the password?”

Daylen paused, realizing he probably should have asked the dwarf a few more questions. “How about ‘eat me?’”

The doorman sneered. “Looks like we have a martyr, bo-” He broke off as Daylen kicked him in the chest, sending him tumbling back. Sten’s sword took off both of another thug’s hands at the wrists, and arterial blood spurted as the others sprang into action.

The fight only took a few moments, and a cursory looting followed as the group tried not to slip in the blood and frost on the floor. The carta’s hideout wound through tunnels and unfinished rooms, the odd concealed trap slowing the group’s progress as small groups of thugs attempted to ambush them. Bloody, room-to-room fighting kept the group on their toes as they methodically cleared out the hideout. Zevran’s grenades proved viciously effective in the enclosed spaces, although the elf restricted himself to using shock, frost, and soulrot bombs only. “Firebombs or acid flasks could do more harm than good,” he explained, lobbing a pair of frost bombs into a room and shutting the door hastily as crackling and screams were heard from inside. “Burning the entire hideout down _would_ kill everyone, but confirming the kill on Jarvia would be difficult if the entire place is engulfed in flames, no?”

“And the acid flasks?” Daylen asked, ripping a grenade belt off of a dead dwarf and looping it over his shoulder.

“Do _you_ want to step in that?” The Warden shrugged, and the elf gestured to the door as the hollering inside subsided.

Daylen opened the door and caught an arrow in the chest, staggering back. Sten made to charge in, but Daylen threw out an arm, keeping him back. Casting a blob of grease, Daylen leaned against the door, flinging a fireball at the carta thugs inside as another bolt thumped into his side. The room burst into flames, and Daylen slammed the door shut, laying down a sheet of ice over the doorframe as screaming was heard on the other side.

“Be still,” Morrigan urged as the Warden sagged against the door, his face gray and pink foam collecting at the corners of his mouth.

“Hit a lung,” Daylen gasped.

“Crossbow bolt,” Zevran pronounced, examining the projectile. “They don't typically come with arrowheads. Should be safe to pull it out.”

“And if you are wrong?” Morrigan asked.

“Then I get to cough up an arrowhead,” Daylen replied, reaching down and yanking the bolt out of his side, crying out as he did. “See?” He said weakly, holding it up. “No arrowhead.”

Zevran nodded to Morrigan, who stood ready as the rogue took a firm grip of the crossbow bolt in Daylen's chest and looked his friend in the eyes. “On three. One,” and he ripped it out, Daylen grunting in pain as he did. Morrigan set to work, healing magic seeping into Daylen's body as the Warden's head lolled to one side, the mage leaning into Zevran as the assassin kept him upright.

It took almost fifteen minutes to get the Warden back on his feet, and the man leaned heavily on his staff as he stood. “Sten, take the lead,” he rasped, coughing and spitting a glob of bloody phlegm on the floor. “I think I'm done with getting poked full of holes for today.”

“Very well,” Sten replied as they crossed the hall to the opposite room. He kicked open the door, calmly stepping out of the way as a fireball soared past, impacting on the opposite wall. The warrior hefted his sword, charging into the room as Zevran and Morrigan followed him closely. Cupcake was bringing up the rear, tackling a dwarf off his feet as Sten engaged a Qunari mercenary and Morrigan traded spells with an elven mage who had cast the fireball. Zevran ducked past the Qunari mercenary, yanking a crossbow off of the mercenary’s back and firing it at the elven mage. The mercenary paused and glanced back at Zevran, giving Sten the opening he needed to knock the mercenary’s sword out of the way and finish him with a flurry of crushing strikes. Both the elven mage and the Qunari mercenary hit the floor at the same time, dead. Daylen finished off a pair of dwarven thugs with a torrent of lightning and the room fell silent, besides the group panting.

“I sure hope Alistair is having more fun than we are,” Daylen said, taking a pull on a canteen.

—ROTG—

“So, you... know that I am a Templar, right?” Alistair asked.

“I believe what I heard was that you were not, in fact, a Templar. You were trained as one before you became a Grey Warden,” Wynne replied.

“That's right,” the warrior said. “But I still have... all the abilities of one, of course. That doesn't make you nervous?”

Wynne raised an eyebrow. “Should it? I am no apostate. Perhaps you should be directing this question at Morrigan.”

The warrior scoffed. “She claims not to be afraid of me... or anything, really. But you've had more experience with the Templars than her. I know how mages can sometimes. I mean, Daylen never flinched at me, but I suppose that was because he knew me as Alistair the Warden or Alistair the Warrior before he knew I was Alistair the Templar. And by that point, I think he already liked me.”

Wynne nodded. “He thinks very highly of you. I believe his words to me were ‘the Templars didn’t know what they were losing when Duncan recruited him. Or perhaps they did, and figured he’d be a rotten Templar but a great Warden.’”

“Wise-arse,” Alistair grumbled.

“He says you think too much to be a good Templar. The Templars serve a function, and a necessary one,” Wynne continued. “If what has happened at the tower proves anything, it is that we mages can be dangerous... even to ourselves.”

Alistair considered her words. “That's... one way of looking at it,” he said finally.

“And regardless, you seem like a decent enough young man.” Wynne paused. “If you decide to slaughter me out of hand, I'm sure you would at least inform me first, no?”

Alistair nodded brightly. “Oh, sure... count on it.”

Shale sighed. “I hope that the Warden is enjoying its task more than I.”

—ROTG—

Daylen’s staff went clattering away, and Daylen grabbed the carta thug’s wrists, levering the dwarf’s daggers out of the way and hauling him off his feet. “Zevran!” The elf turned, daggers coming up and sinking into the thug’s unprotected kidneys as Daylen swung him around. The elf twisted the blades, severing the dwarf’s spine, before ripping them free. Daylen swung back around, slamming the corpse into another dwarf as the thug ducked out of the way of Sten’s downward swing. The Qunari landed a brutal kick on the dwarf’s face, snapping the thug’s neck and sending him tumbling across the room.

“Crap, he kicked him farther,” Daylen muttered, dropping the corpse and grabbing a mace from the floor. “Come on!” The Warden may have been moderately good with a sword, but hitting someone with a blunt object is a skill that takes little instruction. The mage’s first strike smashed a dwarven thug’s crossbow, the second shattered a collarbone, and the third reduced the thug’s skull to fragments. Morrigan parried a sloppy thrust from another thug’s dagger with her staff, before she brained the dwarf with the end and blew his head off with a point-blank bolt of arcane energy.

As more blood soaked into the stone floor, Daylen retrieved his staff and tossed the mace aside. “Was that everyone?”

“Not quite,” a voice croaked from the other end of the room. “Please, stranger, let me out.” The group approached, finding several cells sunk into the walls. “I see you bear no love for Jarvia,” the dwarf said. “Please, help me.”

“You happen to know which one of them had the key?” Daylen asked, surveying the bodies.

“The jailor had the mace,” the dwarf replied. “He liked to use it on us.”

Daylen flipped the corpse over and fished the key out of the jailor’s pocket. “What are you in for?”

“Jaywalking,” the dwarf shot back. “Please, let me out of here!” Daylen unlocked the cell, the door hinges squealing as they opened. “Thank you,” the dwarf said softly. “We’ve been down here…it’s been so long.”

“We?”

The dwarf pointed at a skeleton in the next cell. “He just stopped eating one day. Wasted away. All this, for a stupid bet…”

“The way’s clear back towards Dust Town,” Daylen said. The dwarf nodded, leaving without another word.

The group pushed on, finding more tunnels, more thugs, and in one dead end that smelled vaguely corpse-ish, a cluster of giant spiders that found themselves soaked in grease and set alight by a mage screaming obscenities.

Daylen was panting as he hosed down the grease fire with frost magic, quenching the flames. “How much more of this hideout can there be? We’ve killed more dwarves here than I’ve seen in the rest of Orzammar.”

Zevran was working out a sore wrist, wrinkling his nose as the scent of the burning spiders hung in the air. “With so many casteless, it is not surprising that they turn to crime to make ends meet.”

“Well, let’s hope this wraps up soon,” Daylen muttered, pulling a lyrium potion from his bandolier and swallowing it down.

The tunnels widened into another room, and Daylen spotted a female dwarf ahead, flanked by over a dozen guards. “So, Bhelen finally realized his throne means nothing if he can’t hold it, yet he still doesn’t bother to send his own men,” she called.

“So you’re Jarvia,” Daylen replied. “I figured you’d be taller.”

“You picked the wrong side, stranger. It doesn’t matter who’s king, as long as there’s a queen!”

“You’re awfully cocky for someone whose entire carta is dead,” Daylen shot back, glancing at the walls and doing a rough estimate of the distance.

“You’ll pay for their deaths a hundred times over,” Jarvia snarled.

“Put it on my bill,” Daylen quipped, silently gathering as much of his available mana as he could. “I’m already up on a long list of charges.”

“Kill them!” Jarvia ordered. “But leave the mouthy one alive. I have _plans_ for him.”

The Warden shrugged. “Here goes nothing.” Daylen dropped to one knee, slamming both fists into the ground. A solid wave of frost magic erupted from in front of him, sweeping all of the dwarves off of their feet and freezing them in place. Several hidden traps in the room went off as the ice triggered them, and the temperature in the room plummeted as ice gathered on every available surface.

Zevran blasphemed in Antivan as the wave of frost splashed against the back wall, leaving every carta member in the room frozen in various positions of surprise, fear, or agony under a thick layer of ice. The elf took a few steps forward, a layer of frost crunching under his boots. “How…what…” he turned to stare at Daylen. “Why do you not do this _all the time_?”

The Warden looked up at him, his eyes glazed over. “I wasn’t sure I could do it, it’s imprecise, it’s only really useful in a narrow room like this, and…” The mage toppled over, shaking. “It kind of takes a lot out of me,” he slurred.

The elf was looking at the nearest frozen dwarf in a mix of awe and horror. “Are they…are they dead?”

“Make sure,” Daylen said. The others set to work smashing and shattering the frozen dwarves as Cupcake kept a protective watch over the mage. The dog grabbed him by the collar, dragging him off of the patch of ice and onto the relatively warm floor as the Warden groped for his bandolier. “Good boy.” He flicked the cork out of a vial of lyrium with his thumb, tipping the glowing fluid into his mouth and swallowing roughly. The vial shattered on the floor as he reached for his canteen, swallowing greedily until the container ran empty.

“It is done,” Sten pronounced when the last unwilling statue was destroyed. “Let us move on.”

“Do we have some way of proving Jarvia’s dead?” Daylen asked.

Zevran held up the carta boss’s severed head. “Would this do?” Daylen threw up on the assassin’s boots. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

—ROTG—

“Do you think the tower is ever going to get back to what it was, Wynne?” Alistair asked.

“I don't know,” the enchanter admitted. “A great number of people died. It will be difficult to imagine rebuilding with that cloud hanging over everything for many years to come.”

“Do you think you'll be there? To help rebuild, I mean? Once this is all over with?”

“I cannot say. Even if I survive this Blight...” The mage shrugged. “I am a very old woman, Alistair.”

Alistair snorted. “Why? Because of some grey hair? You are a formidable woman, Wynne. You could see that it happens.”

Wynne was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “I think you overestimate the number of years I have left. But perhaps you are right. Or perhaps the memories of what happened there... will be too strong for me to face.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” Alistair shrugged.

“Well, it's good to have someone that believes in me so. Now if I could only feel the same way, myself. That would be something.”

—ROTG—

Leaving the macabre scene behind after looting all they could, the group found an exit tunnel leading upwards from the carta hideout. The tunnel ended abruptly, the end of the tunnel covered by a solid plank of wood. Daylen pushed gently against the board to no effect, and Zevran cleared his throat, pulling a lever nearby. There was an audible _click_ from the exit, and Daylen and Sten put their shoulders to the obstruction, pushing it out of the way.

Their exit opened into a blacksmith’s store, an armor display stand clattering to the floor as the shelf Daylen was shoving against knocked it off-balance. The Warden stumbled forward as the hinges finally gave in and swung open, but Sten caught him by the arm before the mage could fall over.

The smith jumped at the noise, coming around the corner. “By all the beards of my ancestors! How did you…where did you come from?” He spotted the tunnel behind them and his jaw dropped. “You made a hole in my wall!”

“That hole in your wall leads to a tunnel in the carta’s hideout,” Daylen replied. “You might want to have that fixed.”

The dwarf paled behind his beard. “It…it does? Oh, sod it. If people find out about this, my business will be ruined. They’ll think I have something to do with Jarvia!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Daylen said brightly. “Jarvia’s dead. Along with most of the carta.”

“Dead? How? Did you…” Daylen stared at the dwarf, and the dwarf groaned. “You did, didn’t you? You killed her! And then you climbed out of there into _my shop_.”

“If there had been an option to climb out into a land of free food and soft beds I would have gone there instead, but the tunnel only leads here,” Daylen snapped. “Be happy. If the carta knew you were so easily frightened, you’d be working for them right now.”

“Aw, just leave me alone,” the smith whined. “I don’t want anything to do with this. And if anyone comes asking, I’m gonna tell them _you_ did it!”

—ROTG—

“So I am to understand the sister is a follower of this ‘Maker’?” Shale asked.

“Am I the sister?” Leliana said, smiling. “Aw... that's so cute. It's like you're my big brother, or sister... or whatever.”

“I am a creature of stone. I doubt that we will be related in any shape or form.”

“Oh I didn't mean literally! Don't you think people can be related in spirit?”

Shale sighed. “I notice that humans tend to believe in a great number of things that are not true, even when given evidence to the contrary.”

“Believing in things when there is no proof is what faith is all about, Shale.”

“Believing in things when there is no proof is what _gullibility_ is all about.”

Leliana arched an eyebrow. “So I am gullible now?”

Shale shrugged. “I, ah, take it we are no longer sisters in spirit?”

—ROTG—

“Well, you’ve simply outdone yourself,” Bhelen said. “They’re talking all over the city about how someone finally went through Dust Town and slaughtered the Carta like genlocks.”

“I did what you asked,” Daylen replied. “Do you have my troops?”

“Not yet,” Bhelen said flatly. Zevran’s eyes narrowed as a quiet growl echoed off the floor, and glanced over, unsure whether it was coming from Daylen or the dog. “Killing Jarvia brought me greater favor, but to truly displace Harrowmont, we’ll need something dramatic enough to end the debate forever.”

“I sense you have something in mind,” Daylen replied sourly.

“What do you know of the Paragon Branka?”

“Well, I’ve picked up bits and pieces from locals, including the man her husband…Oghren?” Bhelen nodded. “Was arguing with. She was your only Paragon in four generations, a smith who invented some sort of smokeless coal that let you increase your metal production and reduced diseases related to it. Your Assembly made her a Paragon, she was granted her own house, and then two years ago she took her whole house except for her husband and took them into the Deep Roads on a wild goose chase for some ancient artifact. Nobody’s seen any of them since.”

“Wild goose chase?” Bhelen echoed.

“Surfacer term, means a pointless endeavor,” Daylen explained.

“Well, that’s more or less accurate,” Bhelen admitted. “She _is_ the only Paragon in four generations, and she turned her back on her responsibilities. A Paragon is like an ancestor born in this time. If she returned, her vote would outweigh the entire Assembly. Anyone with her support could take the throne unchallenged.”

“So you hope to bring her back to endorse you for king,” Daylen realized.

“I hope _you_ will bring her back to endorse me as king,” Bhelen amended.

Daylen paused. “Do we need to go over the meaning of that phrase ‘wild goose chase’ again? She’s been in the Deep Roads for two years. The Deep Roads, which until very recently, were just full to bursting with darkspawn. Even if they had held out against the darkspawn, unless they managed to take two years of preserved rations with them, we’re just going to be finding a corpse. What makes you think she’s still alive?”

“Harrowmont is looking as well,” Bhelen replied. “It’s too risky to assume she’s dead, with an entire house dedicated to her protection having gone with her. If Harrowmont were to find her first, the credit for it could swing the election his way.”

“Keep in mind that’s not really a deal-breaker for me,” Daylen pointed out. “I get my troops either way. Ignoring the whole ‘they can’t feed an entire house for two years in the blasted Deep Roads alone’ problem, do you think she would support you as king?”

“I was hoping you could use your legendary charm to persuade her that the rightful king should take the throne,” Bhelen explained. “However, if the Deep Roads have…addled her wits, then it might be best that she not return before the kingship is decided.”

The Warden sighed in defeat. “If it gets me my troops, I’ll find her, or whatever’s left. What’s she like?”

“I did not know her personally,” Bhelen admitted. “Two years ago, I was still considered a child, not one to consort with Orzammar’s finest. From what I hear, her intellect was unrivaled, but the social graces were…beneath the notice of one so gifted.”

“Smart but rude, got it,” Daylen replied. “I’m guessing that’s what most of your troops have been looking for out in the Deep Roads all this time, and why I’ve been stuck doing all the work here for you. Do we have any idea of where she went?”

“So far, my men have traced Branka to Caridin’s Cross, an ancient crossroad lost to the darkspawn four centuries ago. Her trail ends there. Perhaps with your Warden’s expertise, you can find what my men could not.”

Daylen grunted noncommittally, not having the heart to tell Bhelen the length of his service. “Where is Caridin’s Cross?”

“Many miles deep into the tunnels. It was once a main thoroughfare, but before Branka, no one had stepped foot there in generations.”

“We’ll have to wait for the rest of my group to return before we leave to find her,” Daylen said. “As it stands we’ll need time to assemble some supplies and prepare.”

Bhelen nodded. “You have my thanks. Seek her in Caridin’s Cross. I will try to delay the vote until you return.”

—ROTG—

“Do you miss the life you once had, Shale?” Leliana asked, looking up at the golem. “These centuries of memories you have lost?”

“Does it miss being within its mother's womb?” Shale replied.

“Do I...?” Leliana shrugged. “Well, no. I don't remember that far back.”

“It is no different. My memory stretches only so far, and what went before is now lost.”

“And you remember nothing at all? Not even a little bit?”

Shale hesitated. “There are... images. Faces who I have no names for. Places I remember being but not where they are. Do I miss these things? They are without context. I feel only disquiet when I think of them.”

“Like dreams, then,” Leliana concluded. “When you awake all the details have fled.”

“Is that what it is to dream? Then yes. Perhaps it is like that.”

“How very sad,” Leliana said quietly. “To discover your entire life has been a forgotten dream. I am so sorry.”

Shale glanced over. “Why does the bard stare at me so?”

“I was thinking about writing a song about you. ‘The Statue with the Heart of Gold,’ or something like that.”

Shale snorted. “It thinks my heart is made of gold? It is stone, as anything else. Cold stone.”

“I meant that you had... a good heart. It seems to be that you do.”

For an eight-foot-tall anthromorpic block of stone, Shale expressed bafflement surprisingly well. “And they call this having a ‘heart of gold?’ Why?”

Leliana paused as she considered her answer. “Uh... because gold is precious and shiny and... a good heart is just as valuable?”

A beat as Shale stared at her. “Shiny.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

At this point, Wynne and Alistair were exchanging confused glances, silently agreeing to stay out of this one. “My heart does not qualify as shiny,” Shale insisted. “I kill. Frequently, and not without pleasure.”

“You had a difficult life. Deep down, at the center of your being, you are a good person,” Leliana replied. “I believe that.”

“Even though I have never demonstrated this aspect? How peculiar.”

“You aren't all stone, Shale,” Leliana said confidently. “There is a person inside of you.”

“If so, it is because _I ate it_.”

—ROTG—

“Well, we’ve got about a day and a half to kill,” Daylen mused, “provided Alistair’s group makes it back on time.”

“Which, considering their leader, is doubtful,” Morrigan remarked.

“Ease up, he’s smarter than he lets on,” Daylen said reproachfully.

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “He could hardly be otherwise.”

“And it’s good practice for him as well,” Daylen continued. “Keep it up, Morrigan, and next time we split up you’ll be in his group.” The witch glared at him, but fell silent. “As it is, I was thinking Zevran could switch out for Leliana next time.”

“Any particular reason?” the assassin asked.

“You two work together well,” the Warden explained. “Although, now that I think about it, that would be putting most of our ranged combatants in one group, wouldn’t it. Leliana, Morrigan, me…”

“A bit, yes,” the elf replied. “Leliana is good with her daggers, but…” he broke off as Daylen walked off, the Warden’s eyes narrowing as Cupcake trotted down a hallway. “I suppose it wasn’t important, then.”

The others caught up with the Warden and his dog halfway down the hallway, the dog standing firm in the middle of the hall and growling. “What is it, boy?” Daylen asked, reaching down and scratching the hound behind the ears. “What are you hearing?” The dog continued growling, and there was a rumble audible through the floor, before the wall of the palace blew in. Cast the instant he heard the rumble, Daylen’s barrier sprang up before the fragments reached the party, and the group drew their weapons as smoke and dust flooded the hallway.

“You idiot!” someone said among the smoke. “This isn’t the vault! We have to get out of here!”

“Nobody move!” Daylen bellowed as the air began to clear.

The voice cursed. “Sod it. Witnesses. Kill ‘em!” An unarmored dwarf bounced off Daylen’s barrier, and the Warden signaled his companions, Cupcake bounding forward alongside Sten and Zevran as a half-dozen dwarves emerged from the smoke, drawing their weapons.

With half of the dwarves wearing regular clothing instead of armor, the fight lasted barely seconds. Sten drop-kicked the last one through a solid door, the sounds of bones breaking under the twin impacts audible from across the hall.

The guards responded as the group checked themselves over. “What’s going on!” The lead guard asked. He spotted the hole in the wall and all the dead would-be thieves, and his jaw dropped. “By the ancestors.”

Daylen paused, realizing how the situation could be interpreted. “Er…they broke in.”

“I can see that! Good on you, Warden, you caught them in the act!” The dwarf rolled over one of the corpses. “I guess desperate times drive people to strange things.”

“You should scout the area, make sure we got them all,” Daylen suggested. “Maybe trace that tunnel, too.”

“Was planning on that,” the guard replied, issuing orders to his men. “Tell me, any of you lot have any skill with healing?”

“I do, at that,” Daylen declared. “Someone injured?”

“Poisoned,” the guard said darkly. “Lady Brodens. Just head towards the private chambers. Ask for Herbalist Widron.”

They found the herbalist and his patient in a side room in the private chambers. The dwarven woman was stretched out on the bed, shaking and sweating. “Fools and their politics,” the herbalist spat. “The poison was probably imported as a king-killer and she got dosed by mistake. I’ve never seen anything this potent.”

Daylen gently took the woman’s pulse in her wrist, wincing as he felt the rapid heartbeat. “You can’t cure it?” He touched her forehead, flinching. “She’s burning up.”

“It’s a very strange toxin,” the herbalist replied. “I know there’s a counter, but the ingredients are so rare in Orzammar, it just doesn’t matter.” The dwarf held out a piece of vellum, and Daylen took the document, examining it. “If you can chase these things down, I’ll thank you, but I won’t get my hopes up.” He looked down at the woman. “The Stone will take her soon.”

“Erm…I happen to have all of these on me,” Daylen said after a beat. “Elfroot is so common on the surface that you can’t sell it in some places, we scrounged up some lifestones before coming here, and this other reagent you have here is a common concentrator agent.” The herbalist stared at him in shock for a moment longer as Daylen fished out the ingredients. “You mix this antidote. We have to get her temperature down.” Weaving a thread of magic, Daylen blew on his hands, a layer of frost forming on them as he put a hand on the poisoned dwarf’s forehead. Another thread of magic, and the dwarf’s temperature dropped noticeably. “I’ve bought us some time, but you need to-” There was crashing and shouting from outside, and Daylen was out the door before the others could follow.

It was easy enough to tell the guards from the nobles at that moment – the guards were running towards the commotion, and the nobles were hauling self-important ass away from the perceived danger. Said danger turned out to be a revenant in the palace’s kitchen, the remnants of a glass vial at its feet and several dwarves already critically injured. A pair of dwarven guards were hurriedly backing away, their weapons held in ready guards.

Daylen slid to a stop, taking in the scene. “Sten!”

The warrior charged the revenant, bulling past the Warden as the mage drew his staff. “ _Katara bas!_ ”

Considering that the revenant used a greatsword in one hand and a heavy targe in the other, one would expect a normal warrior to be outmatched in a one-on-one fight. Luckily for our heroes, Sten was not a normal warrior, and he had several other seasoned fighters backing him up. In seconds, the revenant’s feet were frozen to the floor and it was caught in uncontrollable spasms as lightning arced across its body. The others set about hacking it to pieces, and a few moments later the creature dropped to the floor. Daylen was busily healing the dwarves he could, urging them to stay still as he worked. Morrigan knelt next to him, doing her best to keep the others alive until Daylen could reach them. Out of the six critically injured dwarves, the Warden managed to save four. He looked at them mournfully as the bodies were taken away for the proper services.

“You saved four of my men,” the chief of the guard said gratefully, putting a hand on Daylen’s arm. “They would have died without your help.”

“And had the rest of my companions been here, we could have saved all of them,” Daylen replied.

The dwarf grunted. “Well, perhaps you can do some good elsewhere in the building. There was an…incident.”

“Of what nature?”

“Diplomatic.” At Daylen’s raised eyebrow, the guard leader shrugged. “A surfacer ambassador was here. At all the commotion, his guard got jumpy, and when our own guards swept the building for further intruders, they attacked. The ambassador and his guards are dead, but some of my men were injured in the fight.”

Daylen and Zevran exchanged a glance. “Ambassador _Gainley_?” Daylen asked hopefully.

“That’s him,” the dwarf said. “I understand he’s one of yours?”

“Not exactly,” Daylen replied. “His status as an ambassador has been revoked, he no longer represents Fereldan interests. His violation of your hospitality, attacking your men like that, only proves how unsuited he was for the task. We can certainly look after your men.” The guard nodded, leading them across the palace. “Can I ask how he came to be here, if nobody has been allowed to enter since your king passed?”

“He has been stationed here as the Fereldan ambassador for over two years,” the dwarf answered, nodding to one of his lieutenants as bodies were dragged from one of the chambers. “When King Endrin returned to the Stone, Gainley refused to leave, knowing he would not be allowed back until we elected a new king.”

Healing the dwarven guards’ injuries only took a few minutes, and after checking in with the grateful herbalist who had been looking after the poisoned noble, who had improved greatly since receiving the antidote.

The Warden was crossing the throne room, headed for the exit, when he heard a loud _clunk_ and felt something shift under his feet. “Huh. Too big to just be a loose floor stone. Hey, Zevran, Morrigan, come have a look at this. I wonder if there are any more…”

—ROTG—

“I am told that it lost a large number of comrades in the battle with the darkspawn.”

Alistair shrugged. “I guess I did, yes. I didn't know all of them that well, however. Mostly just Duncan.”

“I am unfamiliar with this name,” the golem confessed.

Alistair waved it off. “It's... it's not important. You don't need to know who he was.”

“I cannot remember if I ever had anyone important to me. All I remember is being given orders.”

“I would gladly be following Duncan's orders right now, if I could,” Alistair said quietly.

“It enjoys following others?” Alistair nodded. “I find that odd.”

“You wouldn't understand, I suppose,” Alistair mused. “Don't worry. I don't expect you to.” Changing the subject, he went on, “So tell me something... do you feel pain? When you get hit in combat?

“This is when it squeals loudly and spurts blood about? This is when it feels pain?”

“Uh... maybe? I've seen you take some bad hits. Don't you feel anything?”

“Anger. Rage, even,” Shale replied. “Perhaps a little distress. Is this pain?”

“I'm not sure,” Alistair admitted. “I don't think I'd call it distress, exactly. It's more...” Inhaling, he screamed. Wynne and Leliana both jumped at the noise.

Shale nodded sagely. “For me, it is more...” the golem gave a low growl.

“That sounds more like a bowel movement,” Alistair said, scratching his chin. “I mean that sharp, stabbing...” He gave another scream. “Like that?”

“No,” Shale said as their other companions stared at them in confusion. “Nothing like that.”

“No? Huh. Good to know.”

“I find it very odd,” Shale announced, looking at Alistair.

The warrior glanced up. “Hm? ‘It’ meaning me? Am I an ‘it,’ now, too? I feel honored.”

“For one who professes to be a warrior, I find it remarkably weak-willed and indecisive.”

Alistair: “Er... thank you?”

“It also likes to hide its many weaknesses behind a veil of jocularity,” Shale commented dryly.

Alistair shrugged. “For a statue, you know a lot of big words.”

“Is there a reason it enjoys following others so much? Especially when it is in a position to lead?”

“Have you ever been responsible for someone else's life?” Alistair asked pointedly. “Or a lot of other lives? Or an entire nation?”

“Of course not,” the golem scoffed.

Alistair turned, spearing the golem with an icy glare. “Then... shut... up.”

“I will remember this moment when the birds come.”

“We’re almost back,” Leliana said, glancing at the map. “Hopefully Daylen has made some progress on getting the dwarves to cooperate.”

—ROTG—

“Why is there a blasted dragon locked up in a palace, _underground_?” Daylen hollered, sprinting across the throne room with said dragon hot on his heels.

—ROTG—

“Wynne, is this yours?” Leliana asked, holding up a satchel.

“Oh, my bag of components!” Wynne accepted the satchel back. “Thank you, dear... I was wondering where it got to.”

“You left it by the fire, the last time we made camp,” the bard explained.

“Oh... yes, I remember now.” Wynne shook her head. “How age creeps up on you, and brings with it forgetfulness...”

“You're a great mage, Wynne, and you're sharper and wiser than many people I know,” Leliana replied. “Some young ones, too.”

Wynne smiled at the compliment. “Ah, but you should have seen me fifteen, twenty years ago... the fires have dimmed somewhat since then.” She patted the satchel at her side. “But thank you, Leliana... for picking up after this old lady.”

—ROTG—

“Well, that was bracing,” Daylen said as the group patched themselves up, the dragon finally dead. Injuries were thankfully limited to minor burns and scrapes. Several dwarven guards were nearby, equally puzzled how a dragon had gotten into the palace.

“Let’s get out of here before you unleash some fresh misery,” Zevran suggested. “I am sure that if these dwarves have a giant sealed away someplace, you will manage to find it and set it free.”

“Not a bad idea,” Daylen replied. “Let’s head to the Provings, we haven’t caused any problems there yet.”

“Do you intend to simply wreak havoc until they agree to supply the troops you need?” Morrigan asked as they left the palace.

“It’s certainly an option,” Daylen replied. “I have no intention of playing their cheerful messenger boy, but I’m providing an incentive. They give me what I want, I go away.” They emerged from the stairwell, and Daylen spotted a group of armed dwarves up ahead, blocking the path. “This bodes well,” he muttered. “Be ready, I have the feeling we’re about to make some new friends.”

“Who do you support, Warden?” one of the dwarves demanded as his companions blocked the path. “Where do your loyalties lie?”

“If you have to ask that, I’m guessing my answer isn’t going to please you,” Daylen replied.

“Bhelen has corrupted the Warden!” the dwarf shouted. “End this for Harrowmont!”

For a change, the numbers were even – five Harrowmont fanatics against the Warden, his three companions, and his dog. That isn’t to say that the _fight_ was balanced. It was over rather quickly after Daylen and Morrigan blew most of the dwarves off their feet and Sten and Zevran cut them to pieces.

A nearby guard sprinted up, his weapon drawn. “What happened here?”

“Seems like the locals are getting restless,” Daylen snapped, kicking a dead dwarf in the head as he passed by. “You think maybe having packs of dwarves running around in full armor with weapons might be a bad idea?”

“You do not understand our customs,” the guard began, but Daylen cut him off.

“I _do_ understand that I, a diplomatic representative and a Grey Warden, have just been attacked in the middle of your city! And that maybe, your city guard should be doing something to stop stuff like that! It reflects rather poorly on Orzammar if you can’t walk the streets!”

The guard paled slightly. “Would you like to make an official report?” He stammered.

Daylen shook his head. “Just get your act together. The guard is supposed to prevent these things from happening, not show up afterwards and marvel at the carnage.”

It was a short walk from there to the Proving, where almost immediately the group was set upon by another pack of thugs. “I knew this Shaperate stuff would be risky,” their leader pronounced upon seeing them enter the chamber. “Coin for the man who takes the Warden down!”

Against only four poorly-armored thugs, the fight was over in seconds, with three of them frozen and shattered almost immediately and the fourth offhandedly killed by Zevran after he managed to dodge Daylen’s opening burst of frost magic. The Warden fished the missing book off of the corpse as another dwarf stood well back, generally failing to appear innocent. “This deal was all their making, Warden,” the dwarf insisted. “Technically, I haven’t done anything wrong. We have no business. Well, unless you want to make a few coins. Not that I’m suggesting anything, but you’re holding the prize right now.”

“Don’t care, just going to return this and be done with it,” Daylen replied without even looking at him. “Someone might owe me a favor if I do.”

“I can respect that. How about I keep my nose clean until you’re long gone, then? I’m just a businessman. I merely exploit opportunities. I won’t get in your way.”

—ROTG—

“We should be back in Orzammar in just a few hours,” Nevin declared. “I must say, Warden, you’ve made this a very easy trip. Rare is it that a Deep Roads expedition goes by with no casualties.”

“We aim to please,” Alistair replied. “Thank Wynne. Her healing magic has gotten everybody home alive on many occasions.”

“Well, thank you, Enchanter,” the dwarf said. “When we get back to Orzammar, I’d like to buy you a drink.”

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, young man,” Wynne replied. “I’ve been hoping to sample dwarven ale.”

The dwarf barked out a laugh. “In that case, I should let you know – every man you healed wants to buy you a drink!”

“Tapsters it is, then,” the enchanter agreed. The dwarf trotted off to tell his men.

“So you know about him and Morrigan, right?” Alistair asked the mage. “You've heard?”

“I think _everyone_ has heard, yes,” Wynne said. “They haven’t exactly been shy about their relationship.”

“And you agree with it? You don't think that it's... dangerous?”

“Dangerous for whom?” Wynne asked pointedly. “Her? Or him?”

“Anyone,” Alistair replied darkly. “She's maleficar... and rotten to the core. How can he even... this can't be a good idea. She can't be a good influence on him.”

“I will admit that the thought did cross my mind, several times. But look at it another way,” Wynne suggested. “Perhaps _he_ will be a good influence on _her_.”

Alistair sighed. “You know, you are just too understanding about stuff like this. Can't you be more judgmental? I'm trying to rant, here.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. You go ahead and rant, dear, and I'll just nod my head if you like.”

“Far be it from me to defend her,” Leliana chimed in, “but I find it hard to believe that any of us could truly change either of their minds, if they did not desire it.”

Alistair paused. “That…is a very good point. He does have a habit of talking everyone around into following him, doesn’t he?”

—ROTG—

Looking at the thick mattress, Daylen whistled. "Oh, my, a real bed." Running his fingers along the thick quilt, he groaned. "Hello, bed! We've never met! I'm Daylen Amell. Can you hear me, bed? I'm coming in!" He collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion setting in quickly.

“We’re back!” Alistair announced, coming through the door.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Daylen groaned.

—ROTG—

_The Deep Roads  
There isn't a dwarf alive who remembers the Deep Roads as they once were. They were the network of tunnels that joined the thaigs together. To be honest, it isn't even right to give them such a simple term as "tunnels": They are works of art, with centuries of planning demonstrated in the geometry of their walls, with the statues of the Paragons that watch over travelers, with the flow of lava that keeps the Deep Roads lit and warm. The cloudgazers up on the surface talk of the Imperial Highway built by the magisters of old, a raised walkway that crossed thousands of miles, something that could only have been built by magic. Perhaps it is comparable to the Deep Roads, although we dwarves didn't need magic._

_I suppose it doesn't matter any more. The darkspawn rule the Deep Roads now. When Orzammar sealed off the entrances to the Deep Roads, abandoning everything that lay out there, we handed over the kingdom-that-was to those black bastards forever. To think that there are genlocks crawling over Bownammar now, tearing down our statues and defiling our greatest works! Corruption covers everything we built out there. Every dwarf who goes out and comes back says that it gets worse with each passing year, the foulness spread a little further._

_And the cloudgazers think the darkspawn are gone just because they aren't spilling out onto the surface? Huh. One day, when Orzammar is gone for good, they'll find out differently. Those darkspawn won't have anywhere else to go but up, and they'll do it. The surface folk will have themselves a Blight that will never end._

_—Transcript of a conversation with a member of the dwarven Mining Caste, 8:90 Blessed_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	25. The Dead Trenches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party pushes into the Dead Trenches and finds the latest nightmare factory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.

_The Legion of the Dead_  
_“Yes, Stone's greetings friend_  
 _You will fight ceaselessly in_  
 _The Legion of the Dead.”_  
 _\--Motto of the Legion of the Dead._

_The Legion accepts all._

_So I was told by one of the Legionnaires himself, a dwarf who waited quietly at the entrance to the Deep Roads for the rest of his unit to assemble. They gathered slowly, each equipped with heavy armor and fine weapons, each painted with grim tattoos applied at their funerals the night previous._

_For that is the nature of the Legion. They are all dead. Any dwarf may join the Legion, so long as he is willing to give up everything he has. The funeral rites are somber: a final goodbye is said to family and loved ones, any material goods are dispersed to heirs and last words are said, and then it is done. The new Legionnaire marches out into the Deep Roads, never to return. The Legion fights against the darkspawn to the last, striking one final blow against the monsters that have claimed so much of their homeland._

_Many join the Legion to clear the slate. Criminals join to avoid punishment. The dishonored join so that their houses and families need not suffer on their behalf. The bankrupted join so their debts might be forgiven. A very few join for a last chance at glory, but the Legion takes them too._

_This group hopes to reach the fabled fortress of Bownammar, once the Legion's home, associated with the greatest of their Paragons. Bownammar is a holy place, its loss the last great blow against the dwarven kingdoms, and its recapture would be a glorious signal to all of Orzammar. But capture it or no, all of these warriors will die in the Deep Roads. It is a sobering thought, and I now know why the dwarves say the Legion's charge is the battlefield's most frightening sight. They have nothing left to lose._

_\--From Stone Halls of the Dwarves, by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar_

—ROTG—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Daylen repeated.

“Something wrong?” Alistair asked.

The mage sat up, rubbing at his face. “No, no, it’s all right.” He stretched, a spark of rejuvenation magic bringing him back to full alertness. “How did it go?”

“No problems, Lord Dace promised to switch to Bhelen’s camp,” Alistair reported. “We found some salvage, including something I think you and Morrigan ought to take a look at. Looks like parts of a mostly-dead demon. I figured you two could figure out how to kill it for real.”

Daylen shrugged. “Worth a look.”

“And how are things here?”

“Well, we kicked in a few doors, destroyed the carta, took out some fanatics who attacked us in the street, and found out what our next move is going to have to be,” Daylen replied. “It’s kind of a story, so I’ll tell you once we get everyone in the same room. We also killed some thieves in the palace, along with a revenant and a bloody dragon.”

“A _dragon_?” Alistair echoed. “Had you been drinking?”

Daylen snorted. “I wish. Not another high dragon, thankfully, but it was a male, fully grown. Nothing to sneeze at. We also cured a poisoned noble, found that book that was missing from the Shaperate, and the ambassador that Ignacio wanted dead is no longer a problem.”

“You killed a diplomat?” Alistair asked.

“No, the guards did,” Daylen said reassuringly. “Was awfully lucky. Let’s get everyone together, I’ll tell you what the state of things is.” He stepped outside, tugging his boots and gauntlets back on and running his fingers through his hair. “Leliana, did you find your new friend?”

“I did!” Leliana was holding the squeaking nug.

Alistair stared at the creature. “Is that…”

“It’s one of those subterranean bunny-pigs!” Leliana cheered. “Ohh, look at him…”

“Careful, he nips,” Daylen warned.

“He’s probably just hungry,” Leliana cooed. “Oh, he’s snuffling me! Snuffle, snuffle!” She giggled. “Thank you so much. You’ve made my day.”

Once everyone was gathered in the same room, Daylen addressed his companions. “All right, first off, I want to say I appreciate all the work you’ve done. But despite all we’ve done so far for Bhelen, the Assembly is still close enough to a deadlock that Bhelen’s unsure of whether he could win, and until he is, he won’t call for a vote. Couldn’t even be bothered to pay us for the assistance, either. It’s annoying for us but makes sense for him. So we’ve got a new task. You remember that Paragon that everyone talked about, Branka?”

“The loon who ran off into the Deep Roads with her entire house?” Alistair asked.

“That’s the one,” Daylen confirmed, his expression sour. “We’ve been tasked with finding her. Or rather, finding whatever’s left of her before Harrowmont’s expeditions do. Neither side knows whether she’s alive, and having been in the Deep Roads with no supplies for two years, I can’t see how she could be, even if the Deep Roads weren’t full of darkspawn. So we’re going in after her.” Daylen laid out the rough map of the Deep Roads that Bhelen had provided them. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, but we know that the expeditions have traced her as far as Caridin’s Cross, an old crossroads.” He tapped the mark on the map. “Now, this place was lost to the darkspawn back in the Exalted Age, four hundred years ago, so we have a limited amount of information here.” He paused. “I don’t know why Orzammar doesn’t have complete maps, you would think that would be something to preserve. But I digress. From there, we’ll need to start searching. We do know that the Deep Roads _should_ be more or less clear of the majority of darkspawn, considering that they’re all above us in Ferelden.”

“Will we have dwarven support?” Alistair asked. “The expeditionary unit that accompanied us to Aeducan Thaig was a great help.”

Daylen shook his head. “At this point, almost all of Bhelen’s forces are committed, and the unrest in Orzammar itself is growing. If things come to a head, he’ll need the troops he has left here to maintain order and protect his own holdings. If we encounter any expeditions out in the Deep Roads, we’ll be able to link up with them and maybe narrow the search area, but beyond that, we’re on our own.”

“There’s more that you need to know,” Leliana broke in. “That map may not be properly aligned.”

Daylen blinked at her in confusion, before looking to Alistair. “Turns out that the dwarves don’t align their maps to north like we do,” he explained. “Aeducan Thaig is apparently more or less under the Waking Sea.”

Daylen’s jaw dropped, and he shuddered slightly. “Glad I stayed behind.”

Alistair laid out the worn map of Ferelden they had been working off of since Ostagar. “If I understood it correctly, it’s laid out more like…this.” He turned the map, and Daylen sighed. “Yes, it looks like we’re heading south-east again.”

“This is such a waste of time,” Daylen growled. “If we could just…” he took a slow breath, before shaking his head. “Never mind. It’s been said. Let’s just get on with this. If anyone has any equipment problems, worn boots, cracked blades, damaged armor, anything, be sure to bring it up before we leave. We’ll need supplies, preserved rations, since I’m betting we aren’t going to be able to catch much in the way of game down there.”

“When do we leave?” Alistair asked.

“Soon as possible,” Daylen declared. “We’ve spent too much time here already.”

The group laid out plans, preparing for their expedition into the Deep Roads. An hour later, Daylen found himself back in the Commons, most of the party at his back. Leliana, Sten, and Wynne were checking in with the slightly daffy merchant who had set up shop outside the Diamond Quarter stairs, and the rest of the party were passing by the tavern when another group of dwarves emerged from around the corner.

“Oh, here we go again,” Daylen muttered as the dwarves drew weapons.

“The Warden has joined with Bhelen!” Their leader shouted. “We can’t allow it!” The leader screamed in terror a moment later as Shale crushed his head, before using the corpse as a makeshift bludgeon to smack another dwarf off his feet and into the lava. The rest were dead before the screaming dwarf hit the molten rock, and as usual, the guards arrived well after they could have been useful.

“This keeps up, and you’re going to have to put me on the payroll,” Daylen snapped, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked past the guard to see a dwarven woman who hadn’t moved during the fight. He waved off the man’s apologies. “Just get on the stick, all right?” He stepped around the guard, approaching the woman quietly.

The dwarf was kneeling in front of another of the Paragon statues, this one of a female dwarf. “Ancestors, guard my son, for he is lost in darkness,” she was murmuring. “Mothers, keep him safe, for you know what it is to mourn.” She looked up, noticing the Warden. “I’m sorry. Did you have an offering for the ancestors?”

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Daylen said softly. “What were you praying for?”

“My name is Filda, widow of Teruck of the Smith Caste,” she explained. “I pray here every day for my son, Ruck. I only wish I knew whether I should be asking for his safe return…or for the ancestors to accept his soul.”

“He’s missing?”

“It was five years ago,” Filda said bitterly. “He was only a youngster. He joined a Deep Roads excursion – the only smith to go with the warriors to repair their arms. He was so proud.”

“Risky duty,” Daylen remarked. “He didn’t come back?”

“He got…separated, somehow. When they came home, he wasn’t with them.”

“And they just left him behind?” Daylen asked. “Did anyone go after him?”

“The captains don’t want to lose anyone searching for stray men. Too many were taken by the darkspawn that way.”

“If it’s been five years, he’s most likely dead, but…” Daylen sighed. “Where was the expedition headed?”

“They were searching for the old Ortan Thaig, but they never found it,” Filda said.

Daylen nodded, thinking. “We may be headed that way. We’ll look for him.”

“You would brave the Deep Roads yourself?”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Daylen replied with a shrug. “It’s sort of what we do.”

“A Warden! So you _could_ do it! Only Wardens face the Deep Roads without a company backing them.” A smile brightened the woman’s face. “Thank you! The ancestors finally heed my prayers!”

“Take heart, good widow Filda,” Wynne said from behind Daylen, making the Warden jump in surprise. “We’ll do our best.” She smiled at Daylen. “There’s someone I think you should speak with.”

‘Someone’ turned out to be a tiny redheaded dwarf wearing a smudged smith’s apron. “You look like you’re not from around here,” she said knowingly.

“You could say that,” Daylen acknowledged.

“Oh, wonderful!” She clapped her hands together. “I’ve been trying forever to find someone who really knows the surface world. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of something called the Circle?”

Daylen bit back a laugh, turning to Wynne. “Now I understand why you wanted me to talk to her.” He extended a hand to the dwarf. “I’m Daylen Amell, Grey Warden, formerly of the Circle of Magi of Kinloch Hold.”

“Then I’m truly honored,” the dwarf replied, shaking his hand with both of hers. “My name is Dagna, daughter of Janar of the Smith Caste. I’ve never met an actual mage. Is it true you can manipulate nature’s forces with your mind? Like you were born with lyrium in your veins?”

“Don’t let the glamour fool you, child,” Wynne chimed in. “Wielding magic is a dangerous occupation and a great responsibility.”

“That’s true,” Daylen acknowledged, “but you can also do _this._ ” Checking to make sure nobody was in the way, he wove a thread of magic, cupped a hand around his mouth, and exhaled a gout of flame. The dwarf squealed in joy, and Daylen grinned. “It’s a little more complex than just exercising your will, but I wouldn’t trade my magic for anything. Do you have any questions?”

“I’ve been trying to reach someone there for years,” she explained. “I’ve sent missives with every caravan, but I never get a reply. I want to know if they would accept me for study.”

“I’m assuming that you realize you’ll never be able to do magic yourself,” Daylen warned.

Dagna waved him off. “I don’t want to _do_ magic. No dwarf can cast spells, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t study it. It would be a valuable exchange. Orzammar would learn of one of the great natural forces of the surface. And the Circle gains direct access to our knowledge of lyrium smithing. I’ve already begun reading the Tevinter Imperium’s ‘Fortikum Kadab,’ and it’s just fascinating. Did you know that the Imperial Magister Lords once had genealogies of every human family known to produce a mage child?”

Daylen blinked at her for a few moments. “That…you…” he paused. “Wow. That’s…”

“I know,” Wynne said excitedly. “I have not seen such enthusiasm in years.”

“I know,” Daylen muttered. “I hated that book. Everything was couched in metaphor.”

“I’ve also read First Enchanter Caethelun’s ‘Treatise Concerning Dwarves and the Non-Heritability of Magic,’ so I know exactly _why_ I’ll never be able to cast spells. He tested dwarves from twenty bloodlines, and found that they couldn’t perform any level of spell-casting, regardless of lyrium exposure or time on the surface.”

Daylen nodded, her enthusiasm infectious. “The Chantry claims it’s because dwarves weren’t made by the Maker, but a lot of enchanters believe that living underground near the lyrium deposits altered the dwarves on some fundamental level, and the changes persist to this day.”

“The Circle speculates ‘that the lyrium in the Stone shields the dwarves from spiritual influences and over time made the dwarves immune to such abilities,’ which is why dwarves are sometimes resistant to magic,” Dagna quoted.

Daylen smiled again. “Well, you should know that the Circle had some troubles recently, but I believe they would be willing to accept you for study. I can certainly bring your request to the First Enchanter.”

“Do you really think they’ll take me?”

Daylen shrugged. “Well, my companion here,” he jerked a thumb at Wynne, “is a Senior Enchanter with the Circle, and the First Enchanter was my mentor. I’d put money on them accepting you.”

—ROTG—

“All right, we’ve got everything we need, right?” Daylen asked.

Alistair nodded, shifting his pack on his back. “We’ll be fine, Daylen, really.”

The Warden nodded. “Still just feels like we’re walking into this half-blind. We don’t know where Branka went, or even what she was hunting. They stripped the compound clean when they left, Bhelen checked.”

“We’ll make it work,” Alistair said reassuringly. “Somehow.”

So, naturally, that was when the ‘somehow’ showed up. “Stranger!” A gruff voice called. “Have you seen a Grey Warden hereabouts?” Daylen glanced at Alistair, not answering the dwarf that approached them, vaguely recognizing the stocky redhead. “I heard that he…or was that she – you understand, this was several flagons ago – was setting out to search for Branka on the prince’s own orders.”

“What does this Grey Warden look like?” Daylen asked innocently.

“Stout and muscular, fair of face, but with a strong jaw and a bold nose, surrounded by a great glowing nimbus.” Daylen remembered that when he had dragged Ordel out of Tapsters, he had been angry enough to flood the air with raw mana, which would have provided the nimbus the dwarf spoke of. “If she’s a woman, she might be more slight, but her eyes will shine with the light of purity and her large but chase bosom will heave magnificently.” The dwarf paused as Daylen bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “I’ve been looking for hours, but I haven’t seen anyone who looks like that. Very frustrating.”

Daylen bit his lip. “Well, I don’t _currently_ have the glowing nimbus, but you might want to look right here.”

“Well, if you’re the best they’ve got, then standards must have fallen way down,” the dwarf remarked. Daylen blinked in surprise. “But I suppose that would account for a human in Orzammar. Say, could I ask you a favor?”

“Why not? Everyone else does,” Daylen said.

“Name’s Oghren, and if you’ve ever heard of me before, it’s probably all been about how I piss ale and kill little boys who look at me wrong.” He chuckled. “And that’s _mostly_ true, but the part they never say is how I’m the only one still trying to save our only Paragon. And if you’re looking for Branka, I’m the only one who knows what she was looking for, which might be pretty sodding helpful in finding her.”

Daylen grunted. “Why haven’t you gone after her yourself, then?”

“Believe me, I have,” Oghren replied. “Four times, I went looking. Alone. But where she was going, it’s a lost thaig. No one’s seen it in centuries. I searched as far as I could, but…it would take a team of warriors searching for weeks on end to cover enough ground to hope to find it. Which, I assume, is what Bhelen’s scouts have been doing all this time. And they gave the fruits of their labor to you.”

“You certainly know a lot,” Daylen allowed.

“I drink, and sometimes I know things,” Oghren said proudly. “And sometimes, I get to _kill_ things. They haven’t found Branka herself, which means that whatever they’ve got, it’s not enough if you don’t know what she was looking for. If we pool our knowledge, we stand a chance of finding Branka. Otherwise, good sodding luck.” [1]

“And you want to come along in exchange for your information?” Oghren nodded. “Don’t I have enough armed lunatics following me already?”

“Perfect!” Oghren crowed. “What’s one more? Branka was a brilliant girl, but half the time she’d add two and two and make it fifty. You want to find her, you need someone who knows how she thinks.”

“I’m open to the idea, especially if your information is good,” Daylen began. “But I have to ask you something.”

“Yes, the carpet matches the drapes,” the dwarf replied immediately.

Daylen snorted out a laugh, shaking his head. “No, no, not what I was going to ask. I’ve heard how you’ve been banned from carrying weapons inside the city limits, but you were apparently a warrior of some skill. You still have it? We’re going into the dragon’s den, here.”

“Believe me, Warden, I’ve kept up. Branka was looking for the Anvil of the Void. Might have been the most important invention in Orzammar’s history. The smith Caridin built it, and with it, Orzammar had a hundred years of peace, while it was protected by the golems forged on the Anvil. As far as anyone knows, the Anvil was built in the old Ortan Thaig. Branka planned to start looking there, if she could ever find it. All she knew was it was past Caridin’s Cross, and no one’s seen that for hundreds of years.”

“Bhelen gave me a map,” Daylen said. “I can get us to Caridin’s Cross.” He extended a hand. “Daylen Amell.”

Oghren shook it roughly. “Oghren Kondrat. If we’re going, let’s get moving. Branka’s not going to sodding find herself.”

“Right,” Daylen said quietly, staring at the entrance to the mines and shuddering again.

—ROTG—

Days passed as the group pushed into the Deep Roads, following the routes scouted by various expeditions. The group made camp in the main sections of the Deep Roads where possible, encountering the odd pack of disorganized darkspawn that seemed to be heading generally southwards.

Daylen scrubbed at his dry eyes as Alistair slung the bottom half of a recently deceased genlock into one of the lava streams. The top half followed shortly after, and Alistair tossed the genlock’s weapon in as well, ignoring the angry sizzle as the metal melted. “That’s the last of them,” Alistair called.

“You needn’t do all that alone, you know,” Wynne said as the rest of the group approached.

“No,” Daylen replied firmly, weaving a thread of magic and casting a rejuvenation spell. “Let us do it. No sense in you risking it. Alistair and I are already Wardens, not like the Taint can hurt us.” Wynne sighed, but shrugged and nodded her acquiescence.

“We have to be getting close to the thaig,” Leliana commented.

“Let’s hope so,” Daylen grumbled. “Come on, time’s a-wasting.”

“Daylen, are you all right?” Alistair asked quietly. “You've been…well, off, since we came to Orzammar. Something wrong?”

“I'm fine,” Daylen insisted, his eyes flicking upwards. “Just grand. Can we go?” He moved to leave, but Alistair caught him by the arm.

“Talk to me.”

The Warden sighed. “I'm not a fan of…” Daylen waved a hand around them. “All this. Tight spaces really aren't...aren't great, and tight spaces when there's an entire mountain sitting over my head aren't my idea of a fun place to be.”

Alistair winced. “I see. Well, I don't see what we can do about it.”

“There's nothing to do,” Daylen replied. “I'm just going to have to deal with it.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“Just…” Daylen looked up again and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Let's just find some darkspawn. If I'm killing them, I don't have to worry about the walls closing in.”

“Is he all right?” Leliana asked as Alistair took point.

“He's not doing so great,” Alistair said quietly. “Not a fan of tunnels and caves, apparently.”

“Oh dear,” Leliana murmured. “Had we not had to go into the Deep Roads…”

“He might have been fine, yes,” Alistair finished. “He was tense in Orzammar, but out here, he's a mess and he knows it.”

“So, Oghren, do you really think the Anvil could turn the tide against the darkspawn?” Daylen asked the dwarf.

The warrior shrugged. “Could be. I’m no general, but when we had the Anvil Orzammar enjoyed a century of peace and quiet. We certainly don’t have the numbers left to keep fighting the darkspawn on our own.”

Daylen looked around, shaking his head. “So the dwarves are declining in population and face the risk of dying out. Yet they're ignoring an entire section of their population.”

“Tradition,” Oghren grunted.

“Stupidity,” Daylen countered.

“Wasn't disagreeing,” Oghren said. “Just giving their half-arsed reasons.”

Cupcake trotted up, carrying an old helmet in his teeth. Daylen brushed some dirt off, revealing the Grey Warden heraldry on the helmet. Light from the lava flows reflected off of thin ribbons of lyrium rippling through the metal. “Nice find, boy.”

—ROTG—

It rapidly turned from an irritating side job to a grueling slog. The heat turned the wool robes the mages wore into a debilitating hassle. What had been a vital source of protection from the cold out in the mountains proved to be cripplingly hot when there was no breeze and a constant source of heat from the lava streams. Any one of the mages could collect water through inventive use of frost magic, but the resulting liquid was bitter and did little to quench thirst. Food was in short supply – the group rationed their less-perishable food, unsure of how long it would take to find Branka and when fresh supplies would come. Viable game was limited – the odd nug or deepstalker provided a filling stew now and again, but there was an unspoken agreement that if they became hungry enough to seriously consider cracking open one of the giant spiders they came across, they would turn back and tell Bhelen where to shove his armies. There was one particularly interesting dinner that involved some horrific-looking eyeless fish they had found in an underground lake, but nobody had felt particularly hungry that night.

Worse still was the difficulty sleeping. Making camp wasn’t difficult and there was no worry of bad weather, but beyond the constant presence of Daylen’s claustrophobia was the frequent proximity of Blighted creatures at the edges of their senses. Proper bands of darkspawn roaming the Deep Roads proved to be rare – which was little comfort, considering how many creatures the abominations had tainted just enough to keep the Wardens on a near-constant state of alert.

It was almost a week later that the group came to the end of the map, the avenue crossing with another large section of the Deep Roads. “Caridin’s Cross,” Oghren pronounced. “I can’t believe Bhelen actually tracked this place down. This used to be one of the biggest crossroads in the old empire. You could get anywhere from here, including Ortan Thaig.”

“So, you know where to go from here?” Daylen asked.

“Aye,” Oghren said. “Branka dug up some maps of the ancient empire. And I mean dug up, they were partial maps. It’s a little tough to tell with so much of it collapsed now, but near as I can figure, we’re on the right path to Ortan Thaig.”

“See any sign of Branka yet?”

“Not a one, but trust me, we will once we’re on the path to the old Ortan Thaig. She was going to Caridin’s home. Ortan Thaig was where Caridin, the Paragon who made the Anvil, was born. He was an Ortan before he founded his own house, and even then, he spent most of his time in their thaig. Branka figured it was the best guess for where the Anvil was located.”

“No one but Caridin really knew more than it had some kind of Stone-blessed power. Every golem that ever ranged across the empire was hammered on the steel of that Anvil, but no one ever knew exactly how they were made. But Branka was sure _she_ could find out.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

“I’ve been waiting for someone to say that for two sodding years,” Oghren said with no small measure of satisfaction.

They ran into opposition closer to the crossroads itself, as several dwarves and an elf stepped into the road. “Well, look what we have here,” the lead dwarf said. “Some of Bhelen’s new toadies. Let’s show ‘em who’s king!”

Daylen hung back slightly, watching as their newest recruit drew a hefty battle-axe and charged into the fray with a bellow. The lead dwarf died before his sword even cleared its sheath as Oghren smashed his face to pulp with the bridge of the axe, before removing his head with a single swing.

Zevran dodged Oghren’s backswing, skidding past Alistair as the warrior deflected a mace strike and kicked a dwarf into the lava. The assassin had almost reached the elven mage when the mage took notice of him and dropped a paralysis glyph at his feet. Zevran froze in place, and the elf twirled her staff, lightning collecting around the end.

Alistair hip-checked the rogue out of the way, catching the lightning bolt on his shield. The warrior barked out a pained breath as the lightning grounded itself through his body, his shield arm going numb and his body shaking uncontrollably. The mage took a lump of conjured stone to the chest as Daylen dashed forward. The Warden wrapped an arm around Alistair’s chest as Sten barreled in, tugging the Warden back and helping him sit down as Morrigan followed the others into the fray. “Talk to me, mate,” Daylen said, pulling Alistair's helmet off.

“Left arm,” the warrior gasped, managing to uncurl his fingers and drop his shield. Daylen tugged the gauntlet off, wincing as he saw burned flesh underneath. “How bad is it?”

“I wouldn't try waving to anyone,” Daylen replied, removing the bracer. “Maker, that must have been some spell.”

“Can you heal it?”

“Of course,” Daylen scoffed as the last of their attackers met a sticky end at the blade of Oghren’s axe. “Just trying to find out how far the damage goes.”

Sten looked down at the dwarf and frowned deeper than usual. “A berserker. Blinded by rage.”

Oghren scoffed. “Fat lot you know. Anger blinds you. Rage _drives_ you.”

Daylen helped Alistair up, passing the warrior back his shield. “Anyone else hurt?” He spotted several dead darkspawn ahead, and frowned. “And did any of us kill those?”

“Must have been these mercenaries,” Leliana said, rolling the leader’s severed head over with her foot. “He was casteless. Look at the brand.”

“So he’s a traditionalist, but Harrowmont doesn’t mind sending casteless thugs to do his dirty work,” Daylen pronounced. “The hypocrisy of nobles never fails to amaze me.”

The section of the Deep Roads ahead was collapsed, and a crudely-carved tunnel led off to the right, through a cavern. Sniffing the air, Alistair ducked off to one side and came back with a bloody sack dangling from one hand. “I found another bunch of demon parts,” he explained.

“Morrigan and I haven’t really gotten anything solid on how to deal with it besides ‘put it back together and blow it up,’” Daylen said sheepishly.

Alistair looked inside and winced. “Well, I hope you come up with something. This looks like a Pride Demon’s head.”

The group came across a handful of abandoned campsites, the odd journal page or letter left behind. “This is impressive, really,” Daylen pronounced, reading the page. “These ‘Crosscut Drifters’ apparently were some wildcat lyrium miners.”

“Sometimes we get bands like that,” Oghren said, taking a swig from a flask. “Odd loner groups of miners, just following their Stone-sense that don’t give a toss about the Assembly’s orders or mining code or any of that nonsense.”

Daylen watched him take another drink. “Er, Oghren, not to criticize your choices, but should you really be drinking now?”

“I’ve been drunk for six weeks,” Oghren replied. “Believe me, now is _not_ the time for me to be drying out. Honestly, if I stop drinking all at once, the cumulative hangover may literally kill me.” He belched, and Daylen nearly fell over from the stench of alcohol as the dwarf exhaled. “Let’s get moving.” [2]

The group pushed farther into the caverns around the half-destroyed crossroads, finding more journal entries from the Crosscut Drifters and carving through the odd pack of darkspawn. Each time, the Wardens warned their companions that there were more around, the Tainted creatures pervasive as they were in the Deep Roads. Banter was kept to a minimum, until Shale broke the effective silence. “I, uh, may have a cause to apologize to the sister,” the golem said.

Leliana looked surprised. “Apologize? For what?”

“For suggesting that the sister is gullible for believing in things which were not real.”

Leliana frowned. “Oh that. I've already forgotten about that. Thank you for reminding me.”

“I suppose it would offer some... comfort... to believe that things occur according to some grand purpose,” Shale allowed. “All those years I spent in Honnleath, unable to move, it would be comforting to think there was some reason for it.”

“Do you know there wasn't?” Leliana challenged. “Maybe the Maker did it to bring you here, to us. You once said that you have no purpose. Perhaps you were simply looking for it in the wrong place.”

“Perhaps. I shall think on this.”

Past the crossroads, the group found another bloody sack, holding the torso of the demonic creature the group had been hunting. “So, Morrigan and I have talked it over, and while I don’t think there’s really any threat we’d cause by just chucking the lot of it down a hole someplace, or even into the lava, the way to be _sure_ that it gets destroyed is to find the altar it was butchered on.”

“You know how to do that?” Wynne asked pointedly.

“I do,” Morrigan interjected. “They would not teach such things in the Circle.”

“Moving on,” Daylen said, a little louder than was strictly necessary, “some of the notes we found with the parts of the demon say it was sundered in Ortan Thaig. So that’s another reason to head that way.” Stopping at another abandoned campsite, he found a final journal page. “Oh, dear.”

“What is it?” Alistair asked.

“Those Drifters? They didn’t exactly end well.” Daylen scanned the page. “They were following a lyrium vein, and it led them straight to the flank of a darkspawn horde that was ready to break through to a highway under Orzammar that would drop them past any patrols.”

“Orzammar would have been destroyed,” Oghren said quietly. “What did they do?”

“What they had to,” Daylen replied, reading aloud. “If all goes well, losing this cavern will kill the darkspawn’s taste for digging, and Orzammar will never know it was at risk. We’ll be a distant tremor, a ripple in the royal fountain. The charges are laid. We know it will work and we know the cost. The Stone has shown us the way home.” Daylen looked up. “They brought down the whole blasted cavern to bury the darkspawn with them.” He tucked the pages away. “We’ll make sure that the Shaper gets these. And if he wants to debate over whether they should be included in the Memories I’ll kick his teeth in.”

Fishing around in a battered crate near the campsite, the Warden retrieved a pair of heavy gauntlets with griffons enameled on the cuffs, shoving them into his pack. He handed Oghren an enchanted ring, turning over a cheaply-made battleaxe for a moment before casually tossing it aside. Fishing out a silverite dagger, he buckled the weapon onto his belt before closing the empty cache.

“This looks like the right way out,” Oghren declared, looking down the next stretch of the Deep Roads. “Ortan Thaig. It won’t be long now.” He looked up at Shale. “You know, I’ve seen a golem or two in my time. We have a few left, in Orzammar.”

“It is indeed wise in the ways of the golem,” Shale replied dryly. “It deserves a medal.”

“Thing is, I don’t remember anyone ever mentioning about them having memory problems,” Oghren continued.

“Perhaps they’re not the ones with the memory problems,” Shale suggested.

“I talked to a golem, once,” Oghren persisted. “It didn’t have anything interesting to say, but it’s memory? Sharp. It could tell you what you were wearing at the Barnack Festival ten years ago.”

“Probably vomit and flies and little else, if I were to guess.”

“Course, if someone simply _claimed_ to have lost their memory, that would avoid some awkward questions,” Oghren said knowingly.

“Is it still talking?” Shale asked. “It is not drinking, so it must be.”

Oghren snorted. “Fine, fine. You go on and don’t answer me. You’ll screw up sooner or later.”

—ROTG—

Getting to Ortan Thaig took another few days, and cut them back to the northeast, according to the battered compass Daylen had been carrying. “We’re probably not that far from Highever, or Crestwood at least,” Alistair mused, looking up. “If we only knew where the Deep Roads entrances were, we could probably take days off a trip across the country.”

“Only really useful during a Blight,” Daylen pointed out. “Otherwise this place would be stuffed full of darkspawn.”

“Still worth a try,” Alistair said with a shrug. “If nothing else, imagine how useful it could be to move troops around during an invasion.”

“I think we’re here,” Oghren cut in. “Ortan Thaig.”

Daylen looked around. “Bit of a shithole, innit?”

Oghren glanced over at him. “It’s been hundreds of years since this place was inhabited.”

“So I see,” Daylen replied, kicking a withered darkspawn corpse out of the way. “What did this? Spiders?”

“Possible,” the dwarf said. “There are other things down here, things we still don’t understand.”

“So chances are good we’ll run into a few of those,” Daylen muttered.

“With your luck?” Alistair chimed in. “Almost a guarantee, I would say.” Daylen scowled at him, and the warrior grinned unrepentantly. “Let’s start looking.”

After ten minutes, all the group had managed to find were large spiders and larger webs. A few ancient notes spoke of an elven warrior named Willem Trialmont who had wandered into the Deep Roads and fought alongside the Legion of the Dead in the Storm Age, distinguishing himself to the point that the Legion had buried him with full dwarven honors. The warrior’s blade had been placed in his grave, but when the group located the coffin, they found it empty, the stone lid shattered and thrown aside.

“Sodding darkspawn can’t even leave a corpse alone,” Oghren growled.

Daylen grunted. “Let’s move on. Nothing more we can do for this.”

Unfortunately, deeper in the thaig they found some of the mysteries that Oghren had spoken of, along with several hostile golems. Transluscent dwarves, appearing as spirits, hollered and charged the group. Unfortunately, while their bodies seemed incorporeal, the wounds their weapons inflicted were very real, as Daylen found out when one tried to hack his leg off at the knee. Luckily for the Warden, steel and magic worked on them as well as it did everything else the group had faced, and as the last spirit dissipated Shale finished pounding a golem’s head into gravel, the power crystals along the golem’s fists glowing angrily as half a ton of stone hit the ground.

“What was that?” Leliana asked a few moments later.

“I don’t know,” Daylen replied. “Ghosts? I’ve heard of things like that, but only with humans or elves, never dwarves.”

“No, not that,” Leliana said, peering into the shadows. “There’s something else out there. Darkspawn, maybe.”

“Darkspawn?” Daylen closed his eyes, concentrating. “I don’t sense any about, which is surprising.”

“Could be the golems and the ghosts killed them all,” Alistair suggested. “I’m not feeling any either.”

Daylen looked down at his hound. “You smell anything else out there?” The dog’s ears twitched for a moment, followed by his nose, and one paw came up off the ground, but the mabari only looked about uncertainly. “I know, it’s a dumb question, I realize golems would just smell like rock and ghosts wouldn’t _have_ a smell, but…” The hound began sniffing at the ground, heading up a slight incline. “I should never doubt this dog.”

Cupcake stopped at a broken altar, suspiciously dark stains evident on the ancient stone. Daylen reached out, feeling energy tingling across his fingertips as he examined it. “Where are those body parts you found, Alistair?”

It took only a few moments to figure out which limb went where, and Daylen paused, holding the demon’s severed head by one of the horns. “Be ready, everyone. We’re going to kill this thing, so don’t listen to what it says.” Daylen set the head on the altar, and the group was instantly blinded by a flash of light, lightning crackling around the altar as the parts reformed into a whole, large, very intimidating Pride demon.

“You have restored that which was cut asunder, and revealed my hiding place,” the demon boomed. “Speak your intentions. Seek you vengeance or reward?”

“I’d like you to return to the Fade immediately,” Daylen said flatly. “Whether you go quietly or get hacked back into little pieces is your decision.”

“My deception was convenience, not cowardice,” the demon declared. “A fight you want, a fight you shall-” It gurgled as a trio of lightning bolts slammed into its face and Leliana’s arrow sank into its throat. The warriors charged as Daylen froze the demon’s legs to the floor, and the Warden followed up with a Mana Clash as the Pride demon’s legs shattered under the conjoined assault from Alistair, Sten, Zevran, and Oghren. More ice and lightning ripped against the demon’s hide as the mages kept casting, and once the demon finally went limp, the group soaked the corpse in grease and set it alight.

With the demon dead and the body disposed of, the group pushed further into the ruined thaig, keeping alert for whatever it was Leliana had seen moving in the darkness. Daylen paused at a chest, freezing and shattering the lock. Examining the wax-preserved documents inside, the Warden pocketed them, remembering the promise he had made to Orta in the Shaperate.

The group was heading towards a side tunnel when Leliana hissed a warning, her bow coming up. A dwarf in ragged leathers had hobbled out of the tunnel, his skin grey and his eyes wild. “There’s nothing for you here! It’s mine! I’ve claimed it!”

“Claimed it?” Daylen asked. “Are you part of the clan who lived here?” He glanced over at Oghren. “Could they even survive that long alone?”

“Not likely,” Oghren replied. “Kal-Sharok survived longer without contact with Orzammar, but they had trade with the surface.”

“The clan?” the dwarf asked. “No. But it’s still mine! Ruck’s been here for years now, and no shiny surfacer will take him away!”

Oghren growled. “He’s a bloody scavenger, good as sodding gone.”

“Wait, you’re Ruck?” Daylen asked.

“Begone, you!” Ruck shouted. “You’ll bring the dark ones back, you will! They’ll crunch your bones!”

“Word has it you can only survive down here by eating the darkspawn dead,” Oghren explained.

“Darkspawn blood is poison,” Daylen replied. “Men have died from drinking it.”

“It burns when it goes down,” Ruck said. “It burns! It’s my claim, not yours! Crunch your bones!” Hissing echoed throughout the cavern, and Ruck’s eyes widened further, before the dwarf scuttled back into the tunnel he had emerged from.

Spiders descended from the ceiling, and Daylen twisted, bringing up his staff and unleashing a stream of fire into the shadows. Webbing ignited, weakened, and snapped, and several spiders dropped gracelessly to the ground, just in time for the warriors to hack them to pieces.

“That all of them?” Alistair asked, stabbing a spider again as it twitched.

Daylen smashed another spider’s head with the butt of his staff. “Seems like. Where’d Ruck go?” As the group entered the narrow tunnel the tainted dwarf had retreated to, the Warden glanced at his companions. “Be alert, but don’t start a fight if we don’t have to. That dwarf knows this place better than we do, so he might have seen Branka.”

The tunnel ended in a small cave created by rockfall, the room inside filled with salvaged furniture and goods. Daylen’s stomach turned as he spotted a darkspawn corpse sitting in one corner, the creature’s legs clearly hacked away piece by piece.

“Go away!” Ruck shouted, emerging from the shadows cast by the campfire. “This is mine! Only I gets to plunder its riches!”

“Easy, now,” Daylen said soothingly. “I just want to talk to you.” The dwarf paused, and Daylen pushed on. “Is this Branka’s campsite?”

“It’s _mine_!” Ruck hooted. “I’m the one who found it. I drove out the crawlers. Now it’s mine!”

“I’m not here to steal anything, I promise,” Daylen replied.

“You…you won’t take anything from Ruck?” the dwarf asked. “You won’t take his shiny worms, or pretty rocks?”

“Well, if it’s valuable, I might _trade_ you for it,” Daylen said. “But I’m not going to just _take_ anything.”

“Oh. Ruck not mind that, maybe…”

“So your name is Ruck?” Daylen asked, trying to confirm his hunch.

“Yes, Ruck’s my name. I do not hear it much, so sometimes I like to speak it out loud.” As if to demonstrate, the dwarf hollered. “Ruck! Ruck! Ruck!”

“I think I met your mother,” Daylen said. “Is her name Filda?”

The dwarf grew agitated. “No-no-no-no. No Filda. No mother. No warm blanket and stew and pillow and soft words! Ruck doesn’t deserve good memories! No-no-nono!”

“Your mother misses you,” Daylen pressed. “She asked me to find you.”

“She did not know, not what I did,” Ruck said, shaking his head. “I was very, very, very, very angry and then someone was dead. They wanted to send Ruck to the mines! If I went to the mines, she would know. Everyone would know. So I came here, instead.”

“You ran away?” Daylen asked. “I don’t think anyone _knew_ what you did. And you’ve been down here all this time alone?”

“Once you eat, once you takes in the darkness…you not miss the light so much.” Ruck stared at Daylen. “You know, do you not? Ruck sees, yes. He sees the darkness inside you.”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Daylen replied quietly. “It’s not the same.”

“Grey like the stone,” Ruck murmured. “Guardian against the darkness. Filda…she remembers a boy, a little boy, with bright eyes and a hammer and _she cannot see this_. Swear-promise-vow you won’t tell!”

“You would rather she think you’re dead?” Daylen asked.

“Yes! Yes. Tell the mother Ruck is dead. He’s dead and his bones are rotting in the crawlers’ webs and she should never look again.”

“All right,” Daylen assented. “I’ll tell her you died bravely.”

“Yes. That’s what Ruck is. Dead. Dead like bones that turn to dust when you touch them.”

Daylen sat down in front of the dwarf, looking him in the eyes. “How did you survive down here?”

“When the dark ones were here, I kept to the shadows,” the dwarf babbled, looking away from Daylen. “They don’t look in the shadows, not if you’re quiet. Not if you eat their flesh. Then the dark ones think you’re one of them. They leave you alone. But now they’re gone.”

“Do you know where the dark ones went?” Daylen asked.

“I thinks they went south. Far, far to the south. That-that is where the dark master calls them.”

Oghren grunted. “He’s talking about the Archdemon, huh.”

“Sounds like,” Daylen murmured.

“After the dark master awoke, he called his children and they all went. I wanted to go, too, and gaze upon his beauty…”

“Call of the Archdemon,” Alistair supplied. “It’s what draws the darkspawn to the sleeping Old Gods.”

“Where is the dark master now?” Daylen pressed. “Do you know?”

“He stopped calling. I wish I could go see him, but Ruck, no, no, Ruck-Ruck is a coward.”

Daylen sighed. “But there are still giant spiders here, I see.”

“The crawlers,” Ruck said darkly. “They used to eat the smallest dark ones. Now the crawlers go hungry.”

“Did you find anything unusual at this camp?”

“Bits of things, but only bits,” Ruck explained. “The crawlers took almost everything. They takes things of steel and things of paper. They takes the shinies and the words.”

“Paper and words?” Oghren asked. “That sounds like someone was taking notes. Do you think Branka camped here?”

“They bring to the great nest, the nest they makes for the eggs,” Ruck went on. “They puts the shinies inside, they do.”

The Warden traded a bit with the tainted dwarf, thanking him as they left. “Looks like that bone-picker is living in Branka’s old camp,” Oghren declared as they left. “Did you see the marks on the floor? There were a lot of people and fires there once. Those must be Branka’s papers he said were taken by the spiders. Nothing that fragile would be left from the thaig.”

The group pressed on, crossing a chasm over a bridge guarded by a golem. The stone guardian began to move as Daylen approached the bridge, and the Warden skidded to a halt. “Any ideas?”

“Allow me,” Wynne offered, freezing the stone beneath the golem’s feet as it crossed the bridge. The golem slipped, teetering on the edge of the bridge for a moment before toppling over and into the chasm.

The group crossed unmolested, finding an exit tunnel that led downwards. A spider dropped from the ceiling, and Daylen nearly fried it before realizing it was moving _away_ from the group, not towards them. “All right, that’s just _creepy_.”

“Why are they pulling back?” Alistair asked, spotting more spiders scuttling away from them down the tunnel.

Daylen opened his mouth to reply, paused, and then said, “You know we have an odd life when we’re surprised by something _not_ trying to kill us.” Alistair snorted out a laugh, and the group cautiously followed the spiders.

The tunnel opened up into a cavern, and Daylen paused, looking up. “Oh. Sweet mercy…”

“What?” Alistair looked up. “Wow.”

Leliana swallowed hard. “Are those?”

“Cocoons, it looks like,” Daylen said faintly. Hissing echoed through the cavern, and the Warden groaned. “More spiders.”

Daylen threw up his hands as the spiders charged, lobbing a fireball into the midst of the arachnids. “Just once, we should enter a cave and find  _normal_  sized spiders!”

The next several frantic minutes involved a great deal of screaming, the clash of magic against stone and spider, and another use of the massive storm spell combination Daylen had used in the Circle Tower.

As the storm subsided and the mages downed lyrium potions, Oghren took a swig from his flask, before tapping the Warden on the elbow with it. “Have a snort.”

“Whisky?” Daylen asked, accepting the flask.

“Rumor has it,” Oghren replied.

Daylen coughed out a pained breath. “This isn't whisky. Whisky makes my throat feel warm.”

“This stuff eats it away,” Oghren said proudly, taking a long pull and offering it back to the Warden.

The mage took another pull, coughing again. “What's in this?”

“A little of this, little of that, some apples...”[3]

Leliana whistled, the noise echoing in the cavern. “Take a look at this.” She had found a large book on top of a stone table. A mess of discarded dwarven armor lay next to it, alongside a basket of raw lyrium ore.

Oghren knelt, picking up a piece. “This is the symbol of Branka’s house, all right. _They were here._ ”

“This looks like someone’s journal,” Daylen said, leafing through the battered pages. “It hasn’t been treated very well, but I can make out bits and pieces…”

“Anything about where they were going?” Oghren asked, looking at a dropped helmet.

Daylen flipped to the last entry. “We found evidence today that the Anvil of the Void was not built in the Ortan Thaig,” he read aloud. “We will go south, to the Dead Trenches. The Anvil is somewhere beyond. My soldiers tell me I am mad, that the Dead Trenches are crawling with darkspawn, that we will surely die before we find the Anvil…if we find it. I leave this here in case they’re right.”

“It _was_ Branka’s journal,” Oghren breathed. “Is there more?”

“If I die in the Trenches, perhaps someone can yet walk past my corpse and retrieve the Anvil,” Daylen read on. “For if it remains lost, so do we all.” He glanced over at Oghren before continuing. “If I have not returned and Oghren yet lives, tell him…no, what I have to say should be for his ears alone. This is my farewell.” He tucked the book away, mindful of the damaged binding.

“Branka was thinking about me!” Oghren chuckled. “I knew she still cared. Old softy. Looks like the Dead Trenches is our next stop, then. They say the darkspawn nest there, whole herds of ‘em. But if that’s where Branka went, than that’s where I’m going.”

“The Dead Trenches?” Zevran asked aloud. “You take us to the nicest places, Warden.”

“Scenic tours of all the great wastelands,” Daylen replied dryly. “There’s got to be a way out, those darkspawn had to go to the Dead Trenches somehow.”

The party began following the wall, looking for an exit tunnel. Stomping along behind them, Shale gently prodded Sten. “What do you estimate are the chances of success, Qunari?”

“For the Grey Warden? Little to none.”

“So, why does it follow?” Shale asked. “I do not risk death, but it does.”

“My mission is no different from the Grey Warden's. I must see this through to the end.”

“It would rather perish than give up its quest?”

“Indeed,” Sten replied. “There is honor to be salvaged in such a quest, no matter its chances.”

“Honor is a curious thing,” Shale remarked. “It is far better to be practical.”

“What use is practicality when it leads to cowardice and emptiness?” Sten asked pointedly. “It is better to live well, than to live.”

Shale looked unconvinced. “An, uh... interesting theory.”

“There is worth in your life, Shale. There is value, but only if it is used.”

“What do you know about these Dead Trenches?” Daylen asked Oghren, still following the wall.

“Bownammar, the City of the Dead,” Oghren replied. “It’s an underground fortress. Caridin built it, but it wasn’t for his house. It was built as a shrine, a mausoleum, the final resting place of the Legion of the Dead. The Legion held it, even when the darkspawn were hammering at our gates. It went back and forth between the Legion and the darkspawn so many times the Memories can’t even track it. The darkspawn took it about twenty years ago, and the Legion has been furious about it ever since.”

“They took it personally, huh?”

Oghren looked up at him. “How would you feel if someone took over _your_ home?”

“I was awfully upset when it happened,” Daylen replied calmly. “So I went room by room and killed everyone who did it.”

Oghren snorted. “You’d fit in fine with the Legion, Warden.”

Daylen scratched at his beard. “What confuses me is that if the Legion has been fighting over Bownammar for ages like this, and the Anvil of the Void is this way…why haven’t _they_ found it?”

“Because the Legion doesn’t explore,” Oghren replied. “They don’t reclaim thaigs, they don’t scavenge or recover artifacts. They just kill darkspawn.”

Alistair nudged the giant next to him. “You know, you never did tell me how you passed the time in that cage for so long.”

Sten stared down at him. “No, I didn't.”

“So... what did you do in there?”

“A training exercise,” Sten replied. “I would observe an object and then try to think of all the words in your language which began with the same letter as its name.”

“That...” Alistair stopped walking, staring at him. “Wait. Just wait. You're joking again, aren't you?”

“No.”

Alistair shook his head. “You are not telling me that you played, ‘I Spy,’ against yourself _for twenty days_.”

Sten spoke with the air of one imparting important information. “There are a lot of things in Lothering that begin with ‘G.’”

Alistair paused a moment, digesting the new information. “Hmmm... I spy with my little eye, something that begins with...‘G.’”

Without turning around, Sten said, “Is it a Grey Warden? Is it, in fact, you?”

“Oooh. You're really good at this.” Sten sighed, and Alistair nudged Wynne, who was trying very hard not to smile. “So tell me, you have any children? Grandchildren?” He paused. “I don't know, great grandchildren?”

“What would make you think I have any children at all?” Wynne asked. “You have to know I've spent most of my life in the Circle of Magi.”

Alistair shrugged. “You just seem like the grandmotherly type to me, I don't know.”

“I suppose I'll take that as a comment on my demeanor and not my age,” Wynne said archly.

“It is,” Alistair replied. “You…care, a lot about us. Maybe not all of us are ready to hear it, maybe we don’t always listen, but you do care. Mages aren't forbidden to marry or anything, are they? It's not such an outlandish question.”

“Isn't it? What sort of man would marry a mage, do you think?”

“How about another mage?” Alistair pressed. “There are just as many men as there are women within the Circle, as I recall.”

“That sort of union is...not encouraged,” Wynne explained. “Although that does not stop us from seeking out each other's...company from time to time.”

Alistair paused as he realized what she meant. “I... all right, suddenly you don't seem quite so grandmotherly to me anymore.”

“Good. I would hope not.”

Alistair nodded. “You know, of all the mages I've met you have to be the first one I can honestly say I've really liked.”

Daylen stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Hey!”

“You don’t count,” Alistair replied. “You’re a Grey Warden. Liking you comes with the territory.”

Daylen pouted, but Wynne gave Alistair a warm smile. “Why thank you, Alistair. I am quite touched. I like you, too, Alistair. I imagine my son would have grown up to be someone like you.”

Alistair blinked in surprise. “Your son? I thought you said you were never married?”

“That's true,” Wynne said casually. “I never have been.”

“I... oh. Then this wasn't... before you joined the Circle?”

“I joined the Circle at the age of nine,” Wynne replied. “So, no. Do you still like me?”

The warrior looked confused. “Err... yes? Why wouldn't I?”

“Good. It appears you got away from the Chantry just in time.”

“Found the exit, I think,” Daylen announced. The magelight at the end of his staff revealed a long tunnel leading out of the Thaig. “Let’s go.” He started down the tunnel and paused, pressing one hand against the wall and shaking his head. Casting another rejuvenation spell, he shook off the fatigue and moved on.

Wynne sidled up alongside Alistair, nudging the warrior with her elbow. “When was the last time he slept?”

“Orzammar,” Alistair said quietly. “He's been awake since then. He doesn’t seem to be a fan of confined spaces like this.”

Wynne blanched. “I was afraid of that. Rejuvenation spells can keep him awake, but after this long, his awareness will be degraded and his reflexes slowed. He needs to sleep.”

“He's tried,” Alistair protested. “He wound up pacing.”

“You know I can hear you,” Daylen called from up ahead. “I might have been awake for all this time but my hearing is just fine thank you.”

“Then you know I'm right,” Wynne called back.

“Hardly,” Daylen scoffed. “I'll sleep once we're out of here.”

“You will sleep now, young man,” Wynne replied primly. “You're no good to us this way.”

The man stopped and turned. “Wynne if you want to try and prove that I'm impaired by this lack of sleep that's one thing but if you honestly expect me to jump when you say so you may want to think about where you are.” Daylen stepped closer, the dark circles around his eyes accentuated by the flickering lights. “You are fighting alongside me and if you wish to continue doing so you will realize that you have no authority here. I am not one of your students anymore nor am I under your command. If you can't deal with that you can bugger off back to what's left of the Circle.”

Alistair stepped forward. “Daylen, are you listening to yourself?” Daylen gave him a long stare, and Alistair went on. “Everything's coming out of your mouth in one long sentence. Your magic can't keep you at your best.  _You need sleep_.” Daylen stared at him for a moment longer, before collapsing, his staff clattering to the floor. Sten stepped forward, catching the unconscious Warden before he hit the ground and hefting the mage with ease. Alistair looked over at Wynne. “Was that you?”

Wynne looked as confused as he did. “No, I had nothing to do with that. He would have seen me weaving the magic.”

“'Tis I who put him to sleep,” Morrigan said, leaning out from behind Sten. “A simple spell. He will sleep for some hours, yet.”

Alistair nodded. “Let's make camp. Will he back to normal when he wakes?”

“Unlikely, but possible,” Morrigan replied, tugging a bedroll out of Daylen's pack as Sten wordlessly held the Warden up, his thick arms under the sleeping man's armpits. “He will be better, however.”

Alistair nodded grimly. “Leliana, you and I will take the first watch.”

 —ROTG—

Daylen sat up, rubbing grit from his eyes. “Oh, Maker, my head hurts.”

“At last, you awaken,” Morrigan said lightly, passing a waterskin over. Daylen drank deeply, spilling some over his hand and scrubbing his face with it. “You have been out roughly half a day.”

“How?” Daylen asked, squinting at her. “You knocked me out, didn't you.”

“You would not sleep on your own,” Morrigan replied dispassionately. “I remedied that.”

Daylen clenched a fist, pressing his knuckles to his forehead. Magic swirled around his hand for a moment, and he opened his eyes, the headache dissipating. “Just get me back above ground and I'll be fine.”

“Right, I’m sure we can just find a convenient Deep Roads exit around here,” Alistair said dryly, coming over with a plate with dried meat, cheese, and some bread. “Here. Eat.”

Daylen accepted the plate gratefully, tearing into a crust of bread. He tucked the mouthful of food into his cheek, looking up at Alistair. “When I got the Circle, the one in Kirkwall, the Templars just stuffed me in a tiny cell down in the dungeon. Left me there for a week. I don’t mind the dark, but confined spaces like this? They just…they take me back to a place I don’t want to be.” He bit into the hunk of cheese, chewing hurriedly and swallowing. “Has everyone else slept and eaten?”

“Everyone’s caught some sleep, and everyone but Sten ate,” Alistair replied. “He passed on food. Doesn’t seem to need it as often as we do.”

“Well, he was in that cage for about three weeks,” Daylen said, ripping into the meat. “Maker, I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“A side effect of overuse of rejuvenation spells,” Wynne explained, walking up from behind Daylen. “Suppressed appetite, as well as reduced mental faculties.” She gave him a stern look. “Now perhaps next time you will not overextend yourself so.”

Daylen swallowed the mouthful of food, stuck out his tongue, and blew a raspberry at her.

—ROTG—

The section of the Deep Roads they had been following from Ortan Thaig let them out opened into a vast cavern, torches and fire pits casting flickering light across the space. A deep chasm yawned in front of the party, and they slowly approached.

 _Whump._ The noise echoed off the roof of the cavern, feeling like a punch in the chest.

_Whump._

“What is that?” Alistair asked.

Daylen crouched at the edge leaned forward, looking down. “Oh,” he said, his voice much higher than normal. “Well, shit.” Alistair followed his gaze.

It looked as if the floor of the chasm was awash in a sea of flame. As Alistair looked closer, his jaw dropped. “We’re going to need a bigger army.”

Darkspawn, thousands of them, were swarming in the chasm below. Only one in a dozen held a torch, but the sheer numbers of the horde below left the cavern well-lit as the darkspawn shoved and jostled for position.

“Can we do something?” Zevran asked. “Collapse the chasm on them?”

Daylen shook his head. “We’d go down with it, and even if we did kill all these darkspawn and survive, we’d still need to find-”

 _Whump_. A dark purple blur flashed upwards past them, Daylen jerking back. The blur nearly reached the top of the cavern before wings spread from its sides and it flared for a landing on the bridge crossing the chasm.

“That,” Daylen finished, sighing. “The Archdemon.” The beast was immense, its wingspan easily reaching both sides of the chasm as it roared and exhaled a plume of flame.

Alistair reached forward and tapped Daylen’s shoulder. “Should we go for it? We can end this here.”

Daylen shook his head. “We’d still have the thousands of darkspawn down there to contend with, and we can’t stop it from just running away.” Alistair nodded.

“They’re moving out,” Zevran said, looking into the chasm. “We should wait until they leave.” Leliana was quietly praying, staring at the horde.

Daylen eyed the archdemon, hoping that it couldn't sense their presence. “All right. Wynne? You know how I said I hadn't come across anything I couldn't handle yet? I think I need to revise my statement.”

—ROTG—

_Dwarven Faith  
The Chant of Light is almost never heard in the halls of Orzammar. This is hardly surprising, for, unlike the elves, who were literally abandoned by their gods, or the Tevinters, who worshipped dragons, the dwarves have no gods at all._

_Even the concept of worship is foreign in Orzammar. Instead, the dwarves seem to venerate “the Stone,” a name they give to the earth itself. This seems practical for a people living underground, if perhaps a bit unimaginative._

_For guidance in spiritual matters, they turn to their ancestors. These ancestors, who are said to have returned to the Stone, communicate their wishes to the living via brutal trials-by-combat called Provings. The ancestors' collective wisdom is maintained by the Shaperate, which can apparently store records in lyrium itself._

_Set above the ancestors, above even kings, are the Paragons--dwarves who have achieved such greatness that they are elevated almost to godhood. These are the great figures holding up the hallway that leads from the surface, the first glimpse of Orzammar that outsiders see._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated. If you're enjoying the story - spread the word! Message boards, tell your fandom friends, whatever. I'm trying to get more exposure for this fic.
> 
> 1Game of Thrones. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Archer. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3MASH. [ return to text ]


	26. The Anvil of the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group fights their way through the Dead Trenches.
> 
> Yeah, things can still get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017.

_The Paragons  
As I studied among the dwarves, I became aware that their social system was as rigid as the stone that surrounded them. From the lowest servant to the king of Orzammar, each dwarf has a caste, a rigid social standing, which dictates what he may do and how he may do it. What fascinated me then was that the dwarves, stubborn and proud as they may be, have built in a way for even the lowliest dwarf to bypass the caste system and reach prominence. Any dwarf who has made an achievement of significance can be named Paragon, elevating that dwarf above all others._

_To become a Paragon is to be recognized as, essentially, a living ancestor. Your words are considered ineffable, and the dwarves liken you unto a god. Your family, those you choose to ascend with you, become the founders of a new line of nobility. Indeed, every existing noble house among the dwarves traces its line back to a founding Paragon. It is a rare thing, however. In my visit, I learned that only one Paragon has been elected in generations: The smith Branka, exalted for her discovery of smokeless coal._

_I met the Paragon Branka only once during my stay, and I consider it an odd occasion indeed. Surrounded by those of her house, this ill-tempered woman was draped in the finest clothing and jewelry, and was obviously revered even above the highest nobles--perhaps above even the king--yet she seemed to enjoy none of it. The burden of being a living legend is great, it appears._

_Statues of the Paragons are found throughout Orzammar, though nowhere so prominently than in the Hall of Heroes through which one passes on entering from the surface. It is a breathtaking sight to behold, great works of stone all seeming to hold up the ceiling above. It is meant to impress upon visitors to Orzammar of all who have gone before, I think. It is also meant to remind dwarves going to the surface--and thus abandoning their brethren forever--of all they are leaving behind._

_\--From Stone Halls of the Dwarves, by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar_

—ROTG—

“What do we do?” Leliana asked. Daylen was still staring at the Archdemon. “Daylen.” She reached forward and tapped his arm with the end of her bow. “Daylen!”

“What?” Daylen twisted. “I’m open to suggestions here!”

“Taking it on here would be suicide,” Alistair said. “It looks like they’re moving on. We should wait until it leaves.” He looked at Daylen. “And maybe you and I should hang back a touch.”

“The less chance that they sense us, the better,” Daylen agreed.

Luckily, the Archdemon took wing again a few minutes later, the enormous creature diving from the bridge to lead its forces. Alistair waited a few moments, before looking to Daylen and nodding. “Let’s go.”

As the group approached the bridge, a war cry sounded, and several dwarves charged towards the bridge, darkspawn coming along the length of the stone structure to meet them. The Warden’s party quickly joined the fight, and when the last hurlock hit the floor, Daylen sent out a wave of healing magic, several of the dwarves stiffening as they felt the spell take effect. The Warden eyed their leader, noting the dwarf’s heavy armor, finely crafted yet unadorned and painted black.

“Let them believe they hold us here,” the dwarf was saying to his troops. “When the throne is settled, we’ll beat them to their vile birthing grounds.” He turned to Daylen as his men took up defensive positions at the end of the bridge. The dwarf had a thick red beard, but his head was shaved bald, and dark tattoos covered his forehead and the upper part of his face. “ _Atrast vala_ , Grey Warden. I am Kardol. I’ve never seen one of your kind in the Deep Roads.”

“And yet you don’t sound surprised,” Daylen remarked. “Daylen Amell.”

“In the Legion of the Dead, we abandon our lives to be free of fear, free of hopeful blindness. The coming Blight is obvious to us.” He looked over Daylen’s group. “The surprise is not that you have come, but that you have come in so small a number. What do you want here, Warden?”

“I need to find Paragon Branka,” Daylen replied flatly.

Kardol rolled his eyes. “Who put this dull idea in your head? We’ve got other things to worry about in Orzammar.” He paused, recognition flashing in his eyes. “Ah, now I see. The deep lords in the Assembly can’t make up their minds, so the pretenders need added influence. I get that right?”

“That’s about it,” Daylen acknowledged. “You have anything useful to add?”

“Warden, you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Kardol replied. “Paragon Branka is dead, everyone with sense knows it. Past our line, the darkspawn kill everything.”

“I know, but even if I can't find anything more than a corpse, that'll be enough. Your troops clearly can handle themselves,” Daylen commented. “Why hold back?”

“I’d gladly lead an assault through the Dead Trenches, but without an ass in the throne, we have no orders,” Kardol explained. “I won’t take fool’s gold from a pretender. You want to go digging blind, you go right ahead.”

“Well, we’re going to push on,” Daylen declared. “If you want to move up behind us, feel free.”

“Let us know if you find any Paragons,” Kardol said dryly. “You’re as likely to find a dozen as one.” Daylen turned to leave. “And Warden? Watch yourself.” He sneered at Oghren. “Drunks make poor allies.” Oghren belched, made a rude gesture at Kardol, and jerked his head at Daylen, then at the bridge.

Said bridge turned out to be full of darkspawn, and Daylen signaled his companions to stay back. Speaking quickly to Morrigan and Wynne, the mages cast blobs of grease, soaking the bridge in the flammable goop. As the darkspawn slipped and fell in a fashion that would be comical if it was not being applied to tainted beasts, Daylen clicked his fingers, dropping a spark onto the grease. The bridge burst into flames, and Daylen took a few steps back, feeling the heat crisping the hairs on his face as the darkspawn screamed in pain. Thick black smoke clogged the air, and the group fell back farther, waiting for the grease fire to burn out.

Once the fire had subsided, the party picked their way across, carefully stepping around piles of scorched filth and charred corpses. Daylen paused, his eyes narrowing. “I feel it too,” Alistair warned. “They’re not all dead.” Daylen frowned, snapping up his staff and hosing down the bridge in front of them with lightning. A pair of shrieks lived up to their name as their flesh seared under the assault, and Daylen crushed one’s ribcage with a lump of conjured stone as Alistair hacked the other’s head off.

A badly wounded hurlock in heavy armor managed to rise from the muck around their boots and swung a heavy maul, knocking Alistair’s shield out of his hand. The warrior parried the hurlock’s next strike with Duncan’s sword, drawing the late Warden’s dagger from the sheath at his waist and slamming the blade into the hurlock’s neck. Tainted blood spurted across the warrior’s front as he ripped open the hurlock’s neck, kicking the darkspawn off the side of the bridge and retrieving his shield.

More darkspawn were waiting at the gates of Bownammar, and Wynne hung back, mustering her magic and dropping a blizzard on the tainted creatures. Morrigan followed with a tempest, the spells combining and amplifying each other as the darkspawn were ripped apart by the magic. An ogre charged out of the storm, half-blind with pain and rage, and Alistair dodged past it, hamstringing the ogre as Oghren rooted himself in its path. The dwarf roared a challenge, slamming his head forward and directly into the ogre’s crotch. The darkspawn folded in half, tumbling over the dwarf and falling to the ground, and Oghren leapt onto its back, bringing his battleaxe down in a crushing overhead strike that almost decapitated the ogre.

Leliana casually finished off a badly wounded genlock with an arrow to the face as the storm dissipated, and the Legion came up behind them, double-checking that the scorched darkspawn behind them were really dead. “Well, Grey Warden, I’ll give you credit for backbone,” Kardol said, kicking a dead genlock out of the way. “You’ve dug a line through the ‘spawn. Still no sense in your head, but you’ve got skill.”

Daylen snorted. “This was barely a warm-up for us. We’re moving farther on. You want to push deeper, just follow the corpses.” He eyed the massive gates that guarded the fortress. “How do we get in?”

“There’s a tunnel the ‘spawn dug that way,” Kardol replied, pointing off to the side. “It cuts past the gate.”

A handful of darkspawn were waiting in the tunnel, but between arrows and magic coming from on high and Oghren hacking off legs from down low, the group carved a path into the thaig. A handful of genlocks were waiting inside, and Daylen shrugged his shield off his shoulder, bringing it up just in time for a darkspawn arrow to bounce off the enchanted metal. A bolt of magic sizzled as it collided with the shield a moment later. “Leliana, there’s an emissary out there,” Daylen warned. “Kill it.”

Leliana glanced around his shoulder, ducking back as another bolt of magic snapped by. “Consider it done.” Nocking an arrow, she drew and leaned out. “Maker guide my hand…” Releasing the string, the archer drew and fired again, killing a second darkspawn as the emissary collapsed, tainted blood spurting from its neck. “Go!”

Daylen nodded, drawing his staff. “Sten, Oghren, with me!” The trio barreled forward, the two warriors flanking the Warden as he flung bolts of magic. Arrows ricocheted off his barriers and the heavy plate armor the warriors wore, and Daylen ducked low as a greatsword and a battle-axe cleaved in from the sides, a heavy burst of frost flaring from his staff and freezing the darkspawn in place as the others joined the battle.

Alistair, Zevran, and the other mages followed closely, the warrior knocking a genlock off its feet and stabbing it in the neck as he passed. The warrior scanned the area, spotting a shattered bridge leading across a chasm deeper into the thaig – and an ogre charging from the far side of the gateway.

“Daylen, ogre!” The Warden turned as the giant darkspawn charged and grabbed him by the leg, the Warden dangling from its fist. It shook its hand as magic and arrows splashed against its hide, and Daylen cried out in pain as his leg broke. The ogre snorted, before flinging the Warden away.

A deep crack sounded as Daylen landed, and he cried out, flopping across the ground towards the gap in the bridge. He skidded to a stop, and lifted his head a moment, a pained grimace on his face and his leg pointing the wrong direction.

“Wynne!” Alistair barked, exchanging a few blows with a hurlock before smacking it in the face with his shield and gutting it. “Get Daylen! Sten, go with her! Leliana, take out that damned emissary! Zevran, on your left!” Sten bisected a genlock before backpedaling, moving with Wynne as the elder mage knelt next to Daylen.

“Your leg is badly broken,” Wynne said as Daylen met her gaze.

“No kidding,” the Warden panted, sweat running down his face. “I would fix it but I can't focus. Too much pain.”

“Sten, can you realign the bone?”

“Yes,” the Qunari replied, grabbing Daylen's leg by the ankle and jerking it back into place. Daylen shrieked as the bone crunched and ground together, and Wynne started pumping healing magic into him as the mage mercifully passed out from the pain. An arrow smacked into the back of Sten's armor, and he turned, another arrow pinging off the thick plate. Drawing the crossbow he had strapped to his side, Sten returned fire, the bolt catching the genlock archer in the gut and dropping the darkspawn. “Work quickly,” he said, reloading the crossbow.

“Almost done,” Wynne replied, feeling the bone knitting back together. Pumping a bolt of magic into the Warden, she stood, watching as Daylen's eyes snapped open and he catapulted up to a sitting position, his eyes wide. He groaned as the residual pain from his leg made itself known, and Wynne extended a hand, pulling the mage to his feet. “Come on.”

Daylen limped forward, accepting his staff back from Morrigan and offhandedly braining a genlock with the end. “What'd I miss?”

Alistair clambered off the dead ogre, retrieving his sword from its eye socket. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Daylen winced as he put weight on his leg, leaning on his staff. “All right, let’s push on. Any ideas on how we get over this bridge?” He glanced at Shale. “That don’t involve flinging me around more than I have been?”

“There’s a door that way,” Leliana suggested, pointing at the direction the ogre had come from. “The darkspawn had to come from someplace.”

The door Leliana had spotted lead into a narrow tunnel the darkspawn had carved into the rock surrounding the fortress, and Oghren paused to take a pull on a bottle of whisky as another clutch of darkspawn charged.

Daylen grabbed the bottle Oghren was drinking from and flung it overhand at the darkspawn, hitting it with a stream of fire as it cleared the creatures’ heads. The bottle exploded violently, glass shrapnel shredding tainted flesh as burning high-proof alcohol spattered them. “Now that’s just abusing alcohol!” the dwarf bellowed, hacking a genlock to pieces.

“Sorry, I didn’t-” A corrupted spider dropped from the ceiling, landing on Daylen. The Warden ripped the silverite dagger he had looted in Caridin’s Cross from its sheath, stabbing the spider in the face until it stopped moving and shoving the body off of him.

Alistair stabbed the last genlock in the chest, turning to Daylen as it dropped. “You all right?”

Daylen stomped on the critically injured genlock’s head until it stopped squealing and turned around, panting. “Fuck darkspawn, fuck spiders, and fuck the Deep Roads for having copious amounts of both!”

“Yeah, you’re all right,” Alistair said.

Leliana prodded Oghren gently. “You're...um…”

“Intimidating? Awe-inspiring?”

“On _fire_ ,” Leliana replied. Oghren looked down, spotting the end of his beard smoking and quickly patted it out.

Daylen knelt, pulling a finely-made dragonbone sword from the clutches of a dead hurlock. “This _might_ just be that elf Trialmont’s blade.” Relieving the dead hurlock of the scabbard, Daylen wiped the blade clean and stowed it in his pack.

The tunnel looped around to the middle of the broken bridge and a platform that ran the width of the chasm, the darkspawn fighting for every room as the Warden’s companions cut their way deeper into the Thaig. Several shrieks tried to catch them in a pincers partway across, only for Wynne to set the path behind them on fire as Shale and Oghren smashed their way forward. Several walking corpses were in the room at the end of the platform, raised by a hurlock emissary that died quickly when Leliana put an arrow through its forehead.

The room was filled with sarcophagi. “The City of the Dead,” Oghren said quietly. “If the Legion can retrieve their dead, they inter them here, sealed away so the sodding darkspawn can’t defile them.”

The group found the only exit, and Daylen pulled up short when he spotted corrupted flesh growing in the corners. “Oh, Maker, not this again.”

“You’ve seen this before?” Oghren asked.

“Yeah,” Daylen said quietly. “And it wasn’t anything good when we saw it then, either.”

Shale examined one of the lumps of flesh. “It's as if a flesh creature exploded all over the room. Fascinating.”

“ _First day, they come, and catch everyone_.” Daylen stiffened, looking around.

“You heard that too?” Zevran asked. “It’s not just me?”

“I heard it,” Leliana whispered.

“Keep it together,” Daylen said, his voice cracking. “Let’s go.” They exited through a hole in the wall into a wide tunnel.

“ _Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat_.”

“Oh this is going to fuel my nightmares, isn’t it,” Daylen groaned.

More darkspawn were waiting ahead, and as the group cut through them Daylen could vaguely hear the voice echoing off the walls. The party hacked and cut and burned as darkspawn threatened to overwhelm them, carving their way through dozens of darkspawn as they made their way through the tunnels. Daylen and Wynne sagged under the effort of maintaining their constant healing spells, and as the party made it to the end of the tunnel, they both downed a lyrium potion, giving each other a resolute nod and pushing forward.

More of the corrupted flesh was waiting in the next room, along with indescribable amounts of filth and unidentifiable substances smeared across the floors, walls, and ceiling. The stench was overpowering, and Cupcake whined as the others coughed against the rancid air.

A dwarf was standing amongst the corruption, sagging to one side as she stared at her surroundings. “First day they come, and catch everyone.”

“So it’s her,” Daylen said.

“Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat. Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.”

“Sweet Andraste, what is this madness,” Leliana whispered.

“Fourth day, we wait, and fear for our fate. Fifth day, they return, and it’s another girl’s turn.”

Daylen made a mental connection. “No.”

“Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.”

“ _No_ ,” Daylen repeated, staring in horror.

“What?” Alistair asked.

“Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.”

Alistair swallowed hard. “Oh, no.”

“Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.”

“How many women were at Ostagar?” Daylen rasped.

“Ninth day, she grins, and devours her kin. Now she does feast, as she’s become the beast.”

“What is it?” Zevran asked. “What is she talking about?”

“You ever wonder why you don’t see female darkspawn?” Daylen asked. “Oh, sweet Maker, _why_?”

The dwarf turned at the raised voices, looking Daylen up and down. “What is this? A human? Bland and unlikely. Feeding time brings only kin and clan. I am cruel to myself. You are a dream of strangers’ faces and open doors.”

The dwarf met his eyes, and Daylen noted her eyes had become milky and distorted, the irises grayed over. The dwarf’s skin was pale and covered in dark blotches, and she appeared to be suffering a high fever. “She’s Tainted,” Alistair said a moment later. “A ghoul.”

“Is this darkspawn corruption?” Daylen asked. “It looks…different.”

“Corruption!” The dwarf said suddenly. “The men did that! Their wounds festered and their minds left. They are like dogs, marched ahead, the first to die. Not us. Not me. Not Laryn. We are not cut. We are _fed_. Friends and flesh and blood and bile and…and…All I could do was wish Laryn went first. I wished it upon her so that I would be spared. But I had to watch. I had to see the change. How do you endure that? How did Branka endure?”

“Are you from Branka’s house?” Daylen asked gently.

“Do not talk of Branka, of what she did,” the dwarf hissed. “Ancestors preserve us, forgive me. I was her captain, and I didn’t stop her. Her _lover_ , and I could not turn her. Forgive her…but no, she cannot be forgiven. Not for what she did. Not for what she has become.”

Oghren peered at her. “Hespith? Is that you?”

The dwarf stared at him. “Oghren. You are not here. You did not come with us.”

“Hespith,” Oghren repeated. “It was rumored that Branka was seeing someone else. Another woman. Hespith, a distant cousin of mine.”

“What did she do, Hespith?” Daylen pressed. “What did Branka do?”

“I will not speak of her!” Hespith rasped. “Of what she did, of what we have become! I will not turn! I will not become what I have seen! Not Laryn! Not Branka!” She shoved Daylen out of the way, sprinting through a door at the other end of the room.

The Warden followed her, the others trailing after him and emerging on the other side of the chasm from the gates of Bownammar. “Hespith?” The Warden looked around. “She vanished. Hespith? What happened?”

“She became obsessed,” the dwarf’s voice came. “That is the word, but it is not strong enough. Blessed Stone, there was nothing left in her but the Anvil.”

“Darkspawn,” Alistair warned, a charging ogre tripping as Leliana’s first arrow caught it in the eye and Daylen froze its feet together. A second ogre slipped on a stray patch of ice from Daylen’s spell and caught a bolt of lightning to the face from Morrigan, the darkspawn lashing out blindly and shattering its twin’s jaw. Daylen followed up the ice with a lump of conjured stone, the ogre’s legs shattering into bloody chunks.

“More on the left!” Zevran warned, ducking a bolt from a genlock’s crossbow.

“I got ‘em,” Oghren declared. “Try to keep up.” He caught the first blow from a darkspawn’s sword on his bracer, before shattering the hurlock’s wrist with a blow from the flat of his blade. Oghren’s axe stuck in the hurlock’s breastplate, and the dwarf growled angrily before letting the handle go, punching the darkspawn in the crotch as he grabbed its weapon hand, barreling past and bringing a sickening crunch from the darkspawn’s elbow as it bent direction it clearly was not intended to bend. Grabbing the mace as it dropped, Oghren bashed the darkspawn’s head in, before ripping his axe free and messily bisecting a genlock with it. The blood-slick handle slipped in his grip as the dwarf broke a hurlock’s skull open with a jab from the top of his axe, and the dwarf spun the weapon in his grasp, crushing a genlock’s throat with the end of the handle before smacking it into another darkspawn with the flat of the blade.

“It’s almost…graceful,” Alistair commented, snapping a genlock’s neck and ignoring the blood splattering across his armor from the severed wrist stump he had just given the darkspawn. “If a bit disgusting and lacking in any grace whatsoever.”

Morrigan finished off the last ogre with a blast of lightning directly to the forehead and bounded forward, blurring into her spider form in mid-stride.

Oghren stared at Morrigan as she shredded through another clutch of darkspawn, before glancing back at Daylen. “Am I just spectacularly drunk, or,” he ducked as a genlock’s head bounced by, accompanied by a screech from Morrigan, “or did your girlfriend just turn into a giant spider?”

“Yeah,” Daylen said dreamily. “Isn’t she amazing?”

“I worry about you sometimes,” Leliana muttered.

The witch bodily ripped the last darkspawn to pieces, before resuming her human form, stretching out a kinked shoulder. Daylen gave her a quick smile, before looking to Cupcake. “Can you find the way, boy?” The dog sniffed about shortly, pawing at a locked door and giving a soft bark. Daylen pressed a palm against the door, feeling magic resonating in it. “This thing could probably stand up to a good hit from a dragon,” he pronounced. “These enchantments are stronger than the ones on the doors to the Circle, and those _have_ stood up to dragonfire before.”

“When was that?”

“Back in the Exalted Age,” Daylen muttered, looking around. “Most of the records have been lost, probably deliberately. The Templars don’t like it when the mages know the strengths and weaknesses of their cages.” He paused, leaning closer to the door.

“We tried to escape, but they found us,” Hespith’s voice came from the other side of the door. “They took us all, _turned_ us.”

Daylen glanced at Alistair. “There’s got to be a way around.”

Nearby, the group found the shrine to the Legion of the Dead. Most of the room was decorated in black, onyx and obsidian covering the walls and floor. “Bownammar,” Oghren said quietly. “I thought it would have fallen into dust by now.”

Just inside the shrine, the group found a corpse wearing a set of boots and a breastplate stamped with the Grey Warden griffon that appeared to match the gloves Daylen had found previously. Retrieving the armor, the party divided up the extra load and pushed on.

“Boy, this place is creepy!” Alistair said, looking around.

“Really?” Daylen asked, letting loose a few more balls of magelight. “I feel like it's trying too hard.” The light caught a humanoid figure, and the Warden stiffened. “Keep an eye out. I see more of those ghosts.” The specters watched the party as they entered the shrine, making no move to stop them or surround them as they approached the altar. “There’s a key on the altar.”

“Might unlock that door,” Alistair suggested.

“I’m betting it does,” Daylen replied. “But why do I get the feeling that as soon as I take it, those ghosts are going to try to kill us?”

Sure enough, as soon as Daylen plucked the key from the altar, the ghosts surged forward, bellowing in rage and drawing spectral weapons. The scuffle that ensued would have been difficult had the numbers not been in favor of the living. The group retrieved an insignia and a sheaf of notes in faded dwarven script that Oghren offered to translate later.

As the group approached the locked door, Daylen picked up Hespith’s voice again. “The men, they kill…they’re merciful. But the women, they want. They want to touch, to mold, to change until you are filled with them…”

Leliana was turning green. “Look,” Daylen said, jiggling the key in the lock. “If any of you want to just turn around and head for the surface, as far away from here as you want, I would absolutely understand.”

“My leaving would be foolish,” Morrigan threw in. “You would not survive without me.”

“I’m staying,” Leliana replied resolutely.

“As am I,” Wynne added.

“Then you’re all nuttier than I am,” Daylen said, unlocking the door.

More of the corruption was inside, oozing up the walls and across the floor. The Warden tried not to think about where the fleshlike substance was coming from as he stepped across a particularly broad stretch of it.

“They took Laryn,” Hespith’s voice came. “They made her eat the others, our friends. She tore off her husband’s face and drank his blood.” The group pushed through another section of the Legion’s shrine, corruption spreading across it like foul moss. “And while she ate, she grew. She swelled and turned gray and she smelled like them. They remade her in their image. Then she made more of them.”

“Fair warning,” Daylen announced as they entered a crude tunnel, the corruption thick on the floor. “After we get out of here, I’m going to drink all the whisky. Any whisky anyone sees, I’m going to drink it. And then I’m going to curl up and cry and suck my thumb. For about a week.”

Hespith’s voice echoed off the walls one more time. “ _Broodmother_ …”

“Wynne, I've been thinking about my life choices as you told me,” Daylen said as Hespith’s voice faded. “And I've come to a conclusion.”

“Yes?”

“I want to go home,” Daylen continued. “I think we should leave this place immediately.”

The party came around a bend in the tunnel, and entered a new level of nightmares. The chamber was full of black tendrils and sacs of twisted flesh, the stone of the walls and floor almost completely covered in more of the same corruption.

Laryn presumably looked like an average female dwarf, once. Now, she was roughly the same height as a Pride demon, but her arms and upper torso were swollen and bloated beyond resemblance to her previous self. Her lower half was now a single swollen mass of flesh that rooted her to the spot, several tentacles emerging from the ground around her. The broodmother that Laryn had become was bald, her skin a horrendous pinkish grey, and her neck and face seemed to be melting into her shoulders. Several rows of grotesque breasts trailed down her swollen body, and the entire mass trembled as the creature shrieked at them.

Leliana threw up. Most of the others looked equally ill.

Daylen took one look at the broodmother and shook his head. “Yeah, sod that, I'm out of here.”

“Daylen,” Alistair half-whined, half-sighed.

“All right, fine!” Daylen rolled his eyes. “Morrigan, drop a Tempest. Alistair, Shale, keep the darkspawn off us. Leliana, Zevran, targets of opportunity. Sten, Oghren, mind the tentacles, sever any that you can get to safely. Wynne, anyone gets hurt, I want them back up immediately. Cupcake? You do what you do best. Any questions?”

“Can I change my smalls first?” Zevran asked, still looking at the broodmother in horror.

“No time,” Alistair warned, spotting a pack of darkspawn entering from another tunnel.

Morrigan’s Tempest landed directly on top of the broodmother, bringing a horrifying screech from the creature as Daylen began casting his own spell. A tentacle erupted from the corruption next to him and Daylen nearly lost the spell before Sten’s blade cleaved through the appendage close to the ground. A blizzard landed on top of the Tempest, the spells unfolding into one another and amplifying as Oghren kicked a genlock into one of the tentacles and bisected both of them with a single swing. The falling pieces tripped a hurlock that Zevran hamstrung and stabbed in the neck. The assassin ducked a wild swing from a genlock’s mace as the darkspawn staggered by, Cupcake savaging its face and neck. As the genlock fell, Cupcake darted forward, ripping the hamstrings out of another hurlock as Sten followed through from severing another tentacle, smashing the pommel of his sword into the hurlock’s skull and caving it in. The Qunari grabbed a genlock by the head with one hand, snapping its neck and flinging it across the chamber, knocking a second genlock that was sneaking up on Wynne off its feet. The enchanter turned at the motion, freezing both darkspawn solid with a burst of ice and smashing a single lump of stone through the both of them. Wynne turned on her heel, casting a blob of grease that sent several darkspawn that were charging at Alistair slipping to the floor, following up with a fireball that sent flaming parts of darkspawn flying across the chamber. The warrior caught a blow from a flaming hurlock on his shield, bashing the darkspawn in the face with his shield and stabbing it in the neck. The warrior fell back in the face of the flames, but Shale stomped through the inferno, wide swings of the golem’s fists crushing darkspawn. A genlock with a crushed skull went flying past Leliana as she drew another arrow, dropping a hurlock that was sneaking up on Morrigan as the witch hosed down the broodmother with torrents of lightning, Daylen joining in with a cone of flame that seared the creature’s flesh and sent plumes of vile smoke into the air.

Daylen gagged down another lyrium potion and cast again, soaking the broodmother in grease. Morrigan joined in, more grease splashing across the broodmother’s head and arms as Daylen pulled a firebomb from his belt. Slinging the wax-sealed flask overhand, Daylen set the grease alight, the broodmother screaming in pain as the fire consumed her flesh.

The few remaining tentacles seized and went limp, and the group mopped up the last of the darkspawn in the area with minimal fuss. Daylen was tending to a gash on Zevran’s cheek when Hespith’s voice rang out again.

“That’s where they come from,” the dwarf said, looking down at them from a ledge high above them. “That’s why they hate us…that’s why they need us. That’s why they take us…that’s why they feed us.” Hespith met Daylen’s eyes. “But the true abomination is not that it occurred, but that it was _allowed_. Branka…my love…The Stone has punished me, dream-friend. I am ding of something worse than death. Betrayal.” She turned, vanishing out of sight. A few moments later, a thump sounded from somewhere below, along with the sound of bones cracking.

“That it was…allowed?” Daylen repeated, more to himself than anyone else. “Branka… _allowed_ this? She allowed this…this…I don’t even have a word for it!”

“Atrocity,” Leliana supplied, taking a pull on a canteen and rinsing out her mouth.

“That’s not strong enough!” Daylen rounded on Oghren. “This woman was your _wife_?”

“Daylen, easy,” Alistair said, interposing himself between Daylen and the dwarf. “Let’s just…find the Anvil.”

“It can’t be too far from here,” Daylen said after glaring at the warrior for a moment. “Let’s try that tunnel over there. The one the darkspawn were coming out of.”

—ROTG—

“We’ve got to be coming up on the Anvil,” Oghren declared. “I can tell, there’s a pretty hefty amount of lyrium around here.”

“Let’s hope this is it,” Daylen growled. “I need answers.”

“If Branka is anywhere, this has to be it,” Oghren replied. “She will not be unprepared.”

“I wonder what state this Branka is in after living here so long?” Zevran wondered aloud.

“Nuttier than squirrel shite, I should think,” Daylen replied as they rounded a corner. Oghren glared at him. “Can you look me in the eye and say that a sane person would allow what we just saw to happen?”

Whatever Oghren was going to say, he thought better of it as the tunnel caved in behind them. “Maker, what was that?” Alistair put a hand against the rock. “Oh, I hope there’s another way out of here, because we’re not getting back out this way.”

“Let me be blunt with you,” a female voice called. “After all this time, my tolerance for social graces is fairly limited. That doesn’t bother you, I hope.” Daylen spotted a female dwarf standing out of reach on a ledge, heavy dwarven armor and a mace and shield her only adornment. She wore no helmet, light brown hair reaching to chin length and framing hard eyes.

“Shave my back and call me an elf!” Oghren cheered. “Branka? By the Stone, I barely recognized you!”

“Oghren,” Branka sighed. “It figures you’d eventually find your way here. Hopefully, you can find your way back more easily.” She looked to Daylen. “And how shall I address you? Hired sword of the latest lordling to come looking for me? Or just the only one who didn’t mind Oghren’s ale-breath?”

“Be respectful, woman!” Oghren snapped before Daylen could tell her where to shove her tolerance for social graces. “You’re talking to a Grey Warden!”

“Ah, so an important errand boy, then,” Branka sneered. “I suppose something serious has happened. Is Endrin dead? That seems most likely. He was on the old and wheezy side.”

“First of all, fuck you,” Daylen said flatly. “Secondly, how do you know I’m not just helping Oghren?”

“Because nobody helps Oghren,” Branka scoffed. “At best, Oghren’s need to find me happened to coincide with the needs of someone more important.”

Oghren growled. “You are _impossible_! This Grey Warden’s come all the way from the surface to ask your help picking Endrin’s successor.”

“Well, not exactly,” Daylen chimed in. “I don’t care about who wins any more than you do, but they need you to break the deadlock.”

“I don’t care if they Assembly put a drunken monkey on the throne,” Branka snapped.

Daylen looked over at Oghren. “In that case, do you want to be king?”

“Our great protector, our great invention, the thing that once made our armies the envy of the world, is lost to the very darkspawn it should be fighting,” Branka went on. “The Anvil of the Void. The means by which the ancients forged their army of golems and held off the first archdemon ever to rise. It’s here. So close I can taste it.”

“But of course there is a catch,” Daylen said.

“The Anvil lies on the other side of a gauntlet of traps designed by Caridin himself. My people and I have given body and soul to unlocking its secrets.”

“You mean you’ve given up your people, body and soul,” Daylen growled.

“ _This_ is what’s important. _This_ has lasting meaning. If I succeed, the dwarven people benefit. Kings, politics, all that is transitory. I’ve given up everything and would sacrifice _anything_ to get the Anvil of the Void.”

“Does that include Hespith and the others of your house?” Daylen asked pointedly.

“Enough questions!” Branka snapped. “If you wish me to get involved with this imbecilic election, I must first have the Anvil. There is only one way out, Warden. Forward. Through Caridin’s maze and out to where the Anvil waits.”

“What has this place done to you?” Oghren asked incredulously. “I remember marrying a girl you could talk to for one minute and see her brilliance.”

“I am your Paragon,” Branka said simply. The dwarf turned and dropped behind a wall, out of sight.

There was a long pause. “So she seems nice,” Daylen finally said, breaking the awkward silence.

“Branka always was a bit...rough around the edges,” Oghren commented. “She hasn't softened any.”

“She seemed a little attached to finding the Anvil,” Alistair ventured.

“Obsessed, more like,” Daylen commented. Alistair shot him a dirty look, but Oghren shook his head.

“Even before she left, she was talking about it constantly.”

“So obsessed to the point of irrationality,” Daylen sighed. “Wonderful. Because we haven't seen that twice already. Only question is, will she be Zathrian, obsessed but still able to be talked down, or Uldred.”

“What happened to him?” Oghren asked.

“Both died,” Leliana said absently. “Zathrian by his own hand. Uldred, by ours.”

“Well, provided the nutty dwarf isn’t lying, the only way out is through,” Daylen said. “So keep your eyes open, look out for traps, and if you’re not sure if something’s safe, throw a rock at it.”

The group ventured forth cautiously, quickly coming across decomposing dwarven corpses along with dead darkspawn. Branka’s voice echoed from up ahead. “I needed people to test Caridin’s traps. There is no way to break through except by trial and error. I sent them in. They were all mine, pledged to be my house, and they didn’t want to help! They tried to leave me, even my Hespith! But even she couldn’t understand that when you reach for greatness, there are sacrifices. As many sacrifices as are needed.”

“Maker, she sacrificed them to _test_ _traps_?” Leliana asked quietly as they entered a wrecked dwarven camp.

“Look out, darkspawn,” Alistair warned. A pack of the creatures were charging from a tunnel leading ahead, cutting past wrecked tents and burned-out fire pits. Several cages were strewn across the camp on their sides, and the Warden tried not to think about what they were used for as he lobbed a fireball into the midst of the darkspawn.

“Let them come to us,” Daylen called, alternating bursts of ice and lightning alongside Morrigan and Wynne. Zevran and Leliana began firing arrows, and Alistair fell in alongside Oghren and Sten to guard their front. Shale stomped forward, casually smashing any darkspawn that got too close into bloody pulp.

Branka was still ranting, although Daylen wasn’t sure whether she was talking to him or herself. “She shouldn’t have gone,” the dwarf was saying. “She was pledged to me. She swore she’d do whatever it took to find the Anvil. There was no other choice. Most of them were dying of the Taint already, but some…some of the women were…transforming. I knew what they would become. There would be an endless supply, fresh darkspawn to test the traps. They could still serve me, let me find the Anvil. It was the only way…”

Daylen could feel more darkspawn approaching, and the Warden whistled to his companions as another pack emerged from the tunnel. “Same as before. Let’s do this.” Shale took to hurling bits of debris from the camp at the darkspawn, crushing a pair of genlocks under a thrown cage. Ripping a tent stake out of the ground and throwing it overhand, the golem impaled a hurlock through the skull as the others opened up on the darkspawn.

When the last darkspawn hit the dirt, Daylen realized Branka was talking again. “You have no idea how they carried on, holding my hand and begging to die. They had pledged me their loyalty! They had no right to face me. They say your order is renowned for its wits as well as its brawn. Perhaps you’ll do better than my poor clansmen.”

“There’s still some darkspawn out there,” Alistair warned.

Daylen nodded in agreement. “Keep alert, but let’s go.”

More dwarven and darkspawn corpses were lying in the tunnel, along with several shattered golems. A handful of darkspawn were still alive until a few moments after the party spotted them, the tunnel slowly curling back and forth with raw veins of lyrium emerging through the rock.

“Be careful not to hit those,” Wynne cautioned Morrigan and Daylen. “They tend to react…energetically, to magic.”

The tunnel closed to a doorway ahead, and Daylen spotted a thick cloud of gas inside, and a dead dwarf just inside the doorway. “Cupcake, hang back,” the mage said, peering inside the room. “I see a good half-dozen golems, and what looks like some valves. Shale, can you get in there and close them?”

“Of course,” the golem scoffed, stomping through the door. Almost immediately, two of the golems moved towards Shale, stomping forward. Shale ducked the first one’s punch and shattered its skull with a single blow, staggering back as the other managed to land a solid hit to Shale’s chest. Daylen lobbed a lump of conjured stone, hitting the enemy golem in the leg and knocking it off-balance as Shale regained the initiative and shoved the golem off its feet. Stomping the golem’s torso to gravel, Shale shut two of the valves, hearing more of the golems beginning to move. The mages lined up across the doorway, opening fire on one golem with lightning and stone projectiles as Shale caught a blow from the other and shattered its arm. The golem dropped, and Shale punched its head until it crumbled as the mages battered the other to pieces. Shale crossed the room, shutting the other two valves and opening the door on the other end of the room, letting the gas dissipate.

Another tunnel lay ahead, ending in another long room filled with golems. “Well, I think we found out where all of Orzammar’s golems went,” Oghren muttered. “Many were lost in battle, but a lot just went missing over the years.”

Again, only some of the golems moved to stop them, but thankfully the entire party was there to beat on the golems until they fell apart. Reaching the other end of the room took several minutes, as the first set of golems to engage them triggered a blade trap and forced the group to proceed cautiously lest someone wind up on the receiving end of a bladed suppository.

A frantic fight with a bizarrely-designed dwarven artifact that appeared to summon more ghostly dwarves ensued, the group alternating between fighting the specters and breaking whatever they could on the artifact itself. When it finally went dark, the door on the other side of the cave opened, revealing another tunnel. Lyrium veins crawled along the roof of the tunnel, winding through the walls.

“Well, I guess Genitivi was wrong,” Daylen remarked, looking up.

“About what?” Alistair asked.

“One of his texts claimed that mages can’t even approach unprocessed lyrium without dying,” the Warden explained. “Now, I’m not going to touch any of these raw veins, but considering I’m less than a foot away from one and I’m still standing, I’m going to guess that he had some bad information.”

The group turned the corner, entering a large cavern through a wide doorway. “This has to be it,” Oghren breathed. “The Anvil of the Void.” Several more stone golems were waiting inside, flanking the doorway. Streams of lava descended from above their heads to a raw pool below. On a finger of rock jutting out over the pool sat a giant, golden anvil.

And between the Warden and the Anvil of the Void stood a single steel golem. As they approached, the golem spoke. “My name is Caridin,” it said. “Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar.”

“Caridin?” Shale asked. “The Paragon smith? Alive?”

“Over a thousand years ago?” Daylen asked at the same time.

“Ah, there is a voice I recognize,” Caridin boomed. “Shayle of the House of Cadash, step forward.”

“You…know my name?” Shale asked. “Is it you that forged me, then? Is it you that gave me my name?”

“Have you forgotten, then?” Caridin asked, sighing. “It has been so long. I made you into the golem you are now, Shayle, but before that you were a dwarf…just as I was. The finest warrior to serve King Valtor, and the only woman to volunteer.”

“The only…woman?” Shale asked incredulously. “A dwarf?”

“I laid you on the Anvil of the Void, here in this very room, and put you into the form you now possess.”

“The Anvil of the Void,” Shale echoed. “That is what we seek.”

“If you seek the Anvil,” Caridin replied, “then you must care about my story, or be doomed to relive it.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Daylen interrupted. “You made a dwarf into a golem? How?”

“Allow me to explain,” Caridin said. “Though I made many things in my time, I rose to fame and earned my status based on a single item: the Anvil of the Void. It allowed me to forge a man of steel or stone, as flexible and clever as any soldier. As an army, they were invincible. But I told no one the cost.”

“Oh, I so don’t like where this is going,” Alistair murmured.

“No mere smith, however skilled, has the power to create life. To make my golems live, I had to take their lives from elsewhere. A dwarf, wearing an armor suit of stone or steel, fused together with lyrium and forged into the mighty forms you see.”

“A dire shortcut,” Daylen muttered. “Was it worth it?”

“The darkspawn were closing in. We needed a way to turn the tide. So said my king,” Caridin remarked. “I had only intended to use volunteers, but he was not satisfied, and soon a river of blood flowed out of this place. Finally, it was too much. I refused. And so Valtor had me put on the Anvil, next.”

“Sounds like you earned your fate.”

“Aye,” Caridin agreed. “Trapped forever in my own creation. A fitting punishment, I suppose. My apprentices knew enough to make me as I am, but not enough to fashion a control rod. I retained my mind.” He looked to Shale. “You were among the most loyal, Shayle. You remained at my side throughout, and at the end I sent you away out of mercy.”

“I…do not remember,” Shale admitted.

“We have remained entombed here ever since,” Caridin went on. “And I have sought a way to destroy the Anvil. Alas, I cannot do it myself. No golem can touch it.”

A voice came from behind them. “No!” Branka sprinted into the room. “The Anvil is _mine_! No one will take it from me!”

Caridin looked to Shale again. “Shayle, you fought to destroy the Anvil once! Do not allow it to fall into unthinking hands again!”

“You speak of things I do not remember,” Shale replied. “You say we fought…did you use our control rods to command us to do so?”

“I _destroyed_ the rods!” Caridin protested. “Perhaps my apprentices eventually learned to replace the rods, I do not know, but if so, then all they need is the Anvil to make all the slaves they need!” Caridin turned to Daylen. “You! Please, help me destroy the Anvil! Do not let it enslave more souls than it already has!”

“The Anvil is mine!” Branka howled.

“ _Can we please just calm the fuck down_?” Daylen hollered, glaring at Branka. “Look, I understand! This could turn the tide! But it isn't worth sacrificing lives for!”

“I have already sacrificed so much to retrieve it!”

Caridin growled. “Just as I have sacrificed so much to prevent it from falling into the hands of people like you!”

“All right, you're not helping,” Daylen said, looking at Caridin. “Sacrificing more to try to reach something simply because you've sacrificed so much already isn't worth it! Not at this cost!”

“Don’t listen to him!” Branka spat. “He’s been trapped here for a thousand years, stewing in his own madness. Help me claim the Anvil, and you will have an army like you’ve never seen!”

Oghren snarled in frustration. “Branka, you mad, bleeding nug-tail, does this thing mean so much to you that you can’t even see what you’ve lost to it?”

Branka rolled her eyes. “Look around. Is this what our empire should look like? A crumbling tunnel filled with darkspawn spume? The Anvil will let us take back our glory!”

“And even if it didn’t enslave living souls, there’s no way I would let you have it,” Daylen said flatly. “Anyone willing to sacrifice their family and loved ones could never be trusted to use the Anvil responsibly. I would rather destroy it and you than allow you to use it unchecked.

“So it fights with Caridin?” Shale asked. “Good. That seems right.”

“Living souls suffer all the time,” Zevran pointed out. “Peasants working the land are trapped, but we do not go about destroying farmland, do we?” Daylen glared at him. “It just seems a waste to destroy the Anvil, given what it could do,” he said defensively.

“You volunteering to hop up on that Anvil yourself?” Daylen asked pointedly. “How would you like to become a golem?”

The assassin’s eyes widened. “Now let’s not be unreasonable,” he said. “You wouldn’t do _that_ , surely.”

“No, _I_ wouldn’t,” Daylen replied. “But _I’m_ not the one who would be making the decision on who gets put on that Anvil.”

“All right, all right, perhaps destroying it _is_ a good idea,” the elf conceded.

“Thank you, stranger,” Caridin said. “Your compassion shames me.”

“I don’t give a fuck about you,” Daylen replied bluntly. “I’ve seen too many people abuse their ability to choose who lives or dies and I’ve seen too many people suffer for it. The Anvil goes. End of discussion.”

Branka gritted her teeth. “You are not the only master smith here, Caridin!” She raised a short rod in one hand. “Golems, obey me! Attack!”

Caridin froze, lightning arcing across his body as the quartet of inactive stone golems in the room came to life. “A control rod! My friend, you must help me! I cannot stop her alone!”

 “You’re not the only one with one of those,” Daylen snarled, fishing out the control rod he had gotten at Sulcher’s Pass. “ _Dulen harn_!” Nothing happened, and Branka’s golems stomped towards them unabated. “Ah, _shit_.” He ducked the first punch from the golem only to catch the second directly in the chest, his ribcage shattering under the impact and sending the Warden tumbling across the cave.

Daylen was gasping for breath, his lungs filling with blood as his magic frantically worked to restore his chest cavity to its previous shape. Cupcake bounded forward, watching over his master as azure light glowed around the Warden.

Shale was grappling with one of the stone golems, the larger golem almost overpowering Shale as the two pushed against each other. The fire-natured power crystals embedded in Shale’s arms and back glowed, and the stone of the other golem’s hands began to melt as Shale slowly pushed it towards the cliff.

Meanwhile, Wynne and Morrigan were hosing down a golem with as much ice and lightning as they could muster, trying to slow down the construct before it crushed them. Sten, Leliana, Zevran, and Alistair were engaged with the other two golems, steel chipping away at stone as they dodged crushing blows and powerful slams.

Oghren was fighting his wife, swings of his battleaxe forcing the Paragon back as she carefully blocked and attempted strikes with her mace. Oghren’s form was excellent, allowing his armor to turn aside most of the blows and simply ignoring those that dented or damaged his armor. “You were the _best of us_!” the berserker howled. “I loved you! You built yourself from nothing, and  _this_  is what you do with it?”

“Get out of my way, Oghren,” Branka snarled, shattering his wrist with a careful strike from her mace. Oghren bellowed in pain, but switched his grip, fighting with his other hand, broad, sweeping strikes from his axe forcing Branka to retreat.

Daylen coughed blood, groping at his bandolier. “Need lyrium,” he rattled, finding nothing but spilled serum and broken glass. “Not good.” He spotted a lyrium node thrusting through the rock and coughed again. “Fuck.”

Wynne and Morrigan had caked the golem in several feet of ice, buying some time as they joined the others in fighting the other two stone golems. Shale shoved the golem she alone was fighting off the edge, the half-melted golem vanishing into the lava below without a sound.

Then screaming echoed throughout the cave as Daylen grabbed hold of the lyrium node, the flesh of his hand searing as raw mana coursed through his body. It felt like every inch of his being was on fire, body and soul, and the Warden tried to direct the fire, control it as he would his own mana.

Within seconds, Daylen knew that he was about to lose control, and looked around, mana boiling off his body as it looked for a way out. “Hit the dirt!” His companions ducked, and Daylen pointed, releasing a single bolt of lightning and bleeding off the excess mana. The lightning burned a six-inch-wide hole clear through both of the mobile stone golems, one of them simply shattering into fragments under the assault, and the Warden dropped, gasping for air as he pumped healing magic into his burnt hand.

Oghren was still dueling with Branka as the others ripped into the remaining golem, the dwarves trading blows back and forth. Several heavy blows from Branka had rent Oghren’s armor, leaving the berserker’s movement restricted and his collarbone clearly broken, but he fought on heedless of his injuries. Branka’s shield had been knocked away by a heavy strike from Oghren, and the Paragon clutched that arm close to her side, the bones in the limb damaged from the strength of Oghren’s blow.

The final golem collapsed as Daylen managed to stand up, and everyone turned to watch the dwarves fight. Oghren’s axe came down and Branka managed to turn it aside, the two coming close together as the head of Oghren’s axe chewed into the dirt. The berserker roared in Branka’s face before head-butting her, knocking her back and off-balance as he wound up a heavy strike, the blade cleaving through Branka’s armor just below the collarbone. Blood spurted, arteries ripped to pieces by Oghren’s blow. As he ripped the axe free, Paragon Branka met her end on the floor of the Deep Roads, less than fifty feet from the Anvil of the Void. Her estranged husband stood over her, watching her blood drip from the end of his axe.

Daylen staggered over, his hands shaking from the magical overload, and the Warden released an overpowered burst of healing magic, the pulse stretching across the breadth of the cave. The mage pulled the control rod from Branka’s belt and turning to Caridin. “How do I release you?”

“Destroy the rod,” Caridin grunted, still frozen in place. “It will free me.” Winding up, Daylen pitched the control rod overhand, the rod soaring off the cliff and landing in the lava with a soft _plop_. A moment later, Caridin staggered forward, standing up straight. “Another life lost because of my invention. I wish no mention of it had made it into history.”

“Yeah, you ain’t kidding,” Oghren said flexing his healed wrist. “Stupid woman. Always knew the Anvil would kill her.”

“How is it that the woman was not able to disable me as she did you, Caridin?” Shale asked.

“You appear to have been altered,” Caridin replied, examining the stone golem. “These power crystals, for one. I do not remember you being this small, for another.”

“I once had a pathetic little mage of a master,” Shale explained. “He found me while scavenging in the Deep Roads years ago, and he…did something to me. Experimented on me. And then I killed him and it rendered me paralyzed.”

Caridin thought for a moment. “Perhaps he was bringing forth old memories? And caused you to remember the time when you fought at my side. The paralysis you speak of always resulted when the master perished. As for your free will…you were always a strong woman, Shayle. I am pleased to see you remained such. But that does not explain the change in your size.”

“I was kept out in front of the mage’s tower, where I could be frightening. His wife did not want me indoors. She said there wasn’t room for me, the hag. She complained that I couldn’t fit through the doors. So the mage had me shrunk down!”

“How does someone shrink a golem?” Daylen asked.

“With a chisel,” Shale explained. “And a lot of nerve!” Shale looked back to Caridin. “Whatever the mage did to me, it seemed to render the control rod useless.”

“I am glad to see that you retain your own will,” Caridin said. “Your choice of companions appears to be excellent.”

“They are such squishy creatures, but I have little other place to go,” Shale sighed. “And provided it doesn’t decide to copy Wilhelm’s experiments, not that I would allow it, it has nothing to fear from me. Much.”

“Hey, sounds good to me,” Daylen agreed. “I’m not in any hurry to have my head squished.” He leaned on his staff and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the tremors in his hands and the constant knowledge that there was tons of earth over their heads. “So now what?”

Caridin sighed. “All of this, this is my doing, my legacy. But at least it ends here. I thank you for standing with me, stranger.” He turned, pointing at the Anvil. “The Anvil waits there for you to shatter it. Is there any boon I can grant you for our aid? A final favor before I am freed from my burden?”

“Oghren?” Daylen looked to the dwarf. “You lost Branka to this mess. What do you want?”

The berserker paused, thinking. “Don’t suppose you can bring Branka back? Maybe make her a golem, like you?”

“I would not do such a thing even if I could,” Caridin said stiffly.

“Somehow I didn’t think so,” Oghren grunted. “Then I don’t want anything that would remind me of…this. Best it’s just done. There…is still the matter of the election, though.” He looked to Daylen. “I mean, we still need a Paragon to get the Assembly’s support, right?”

“That’s true,” Daylen admitted. “Any way you can help us with that?”

“For the aid you’ve given me, I shall put hammer to steel one last time, and give you a crown for the king of your choice. Give it to whom you will. I do not wish to hear their names, nor anything more of them. I have already lived far beyond my time, I have no place here.” He strode the Anvil, picking up a hammer that would be the size of a maul to any normal-sized being. Caridin held it in one hand.

“While he’s doing that,” Daylen said, “Oghren, do you want us to do something with…erm…the remains?”

“Bury her,” Oghren replied after a moment. “She _was_ a Paragon. Deserves that much.”

It only took a few minutes to dig a grave for the dead Paragon and bury her. Oghren muttered a few sentences in the dwarven tongue under his breath, setting aside Branka’s mace and shield. “No marker,” he explained. “Sodding darkspawn would only steal it.”

“We can use it as evidence that we found her, as well,” Daylen replied. “I’m sorry it came to this, Oghren.”

The dwarf waved him off. “She lost herself. There was nothing you could do, Warden,” he said gruffly. The mage nodded, moving a respectful distance away as Oghren bowed his head over his wife’s grave.

Alistair looked out over the cliff, before glancing over at Daylen. “Don’t get any ideas,” he warned.

The mage sighed. “It was jump or die. I’m not going to make a habit out of it.”

“I should hope not,” Alistair grumbled.

The Warden found Shale standing near a large stone tablet, the edges chipped with age. The golem was examining it, scanning the dwarven runes carved into its surface. “Can you make sense of this?” Daylen asked.

“No. Perhaps it thinks I should? It may have something to do with Caridin’s words.” Shale reached out, touching the tablet gently, almost reverently. “If there is a way to make a copy of these runes, I am willing to study them. Perhaps there is something to be gleaned from them, I know not.” Shale shook her head. “Unbelievable. ‘Shayle of House Cadash.’ Is that who I once was? I find this difficult to believe.”

“Are you doubting Caridin now?”

“No, I do not doubt him, I simply…cannot remember. If I was this Shayle of House Cadash as Caridin said, there must be some evidence of my existence remaining. I must find it.”

“It’s been over a thousand years,” Daylen pointed out. “It may have long since faded away. You think something will trigger your memory?”

“I need to _know_ that this is the truth, and not simply believe,” Shale said firmly. “What Caridin said, it has allowed me to remember one thing. I believe I know where Cadash Thaig is.”

“Mark it on my map,” Daylen said immediately. “We can go there.”

“Its offer is appreciated,” Shale replied. “If we can journey there soon, I am most curious as to what we will find.”

Oghren rejoined them, his face-concealing helmet firmly in place. “What’s going on? Find something?”

“Not sure,” Daylen said, looking at the runes on the tablet. “Can you tell me what this is?”

“Names, a long list of dwarves,” Oghren replied. “Let me see now…it says ‘we honor those who have made this sacrifice; let their names be remembered.’ Fart me a lullaby! It’s a memorial of all the dwarves who became golems! Has to be! If there was some way of getting this back to the Shaperate in Orzammar, I’d bet they’d brown their trousers.” He paused. “And pay good gold for it. Probably both.”

“Let’s take a tracing,” Daylen agreed, reaching into his pack.

By the time the tracings were safely stowed away, Caridin was finished. “It is done,” he declared, setting a massive gold-plated and jewel-encrusted crown on the workbench. “It bears the symbols of House Ortan, and House Caridin.”

“That should prove that we found you,” Daylen said, lifting the heavy crown and stowing it away in his pack. “It is unfortunate that the Anvil can’t be salvaged.”

“Aye,” Caridin replied. “That was my great pride, and soon enough, my shame.”

“But where will you go?” Shale asked. Caridin turned to look at her silently, and the stone golem took a step back. “You don’t mean to…”

“I do,” Caridin said. “I lived to ensure that the Anvil was never used again. Now it never shall be. We all must have an end, Shayle. May yours be one of your own choosing.”

As the Warden and the Paragon approached the Anvil, Daylen looked up at Caridin. “So do I just smash this thing?”

“Yes. Use the forge hammer.”

Daylen picked the hammer up, hefting it. Winding up, he brought the hammer down on the Anvil, feeling the magic dissipate as the artifact shattered. 

“What was that he said back in the Brecelian Forest about not being here to swing giant hammers?” Alistair asked. Leliana ducked her head, her lips twitching upwards.

Daylen dropped the hammer and stretched, massaging a sore spot in his back. "Think I pulled something again."

“You have my eternal thanks, stranger,” Caridin said, stepping to the edge of the cliff. “ _Atrast nal tunsha._ May you always find your way in the dark.” His arms outstretched, Caridin leaned forward, tipping over the edge and disappearing into the lava.

—ROTG—

_Broodmother  
It is well-known that darkspawn carry off those captured in their raids to underground lairs. Most assume that the prisoners are eaten, or somehow tainted and turned into darkspawn themselves, though this could never account for the sheer numbers of the horde. Forays made by Grey Wardens into the underground have uncovered the answer._

_When exposed to the darkspawn taint, men are driven mad and eventually die. Women, however, undergo great pain and gross mutations that cause most of them to perish. Those that survive, however, become the grotesque broodmothers. These giant, twisted behemoths birth many darkspawn at a time; a single broodmother can create thousands of darkspawn over the course of her lifetime. Each type of darkspawn is born from a different broodmother: Humans produce hurlocks, dwarves produce genlocks, elves give birth to shrieks, and from Qunari are born the ogres._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think what baffles me about the Deep Roads section of the game is how despite the darkspawn, giant spiders, nugs, and deepstalkers crawling all over everything, all the important stuff is still intact. There's a book in the middle of Ortan Thaig that's just been sitting there for four hundred years, and even if Branka's group found it and left it there, it's still four hundred years old and has been sitting in a damp cave surrounded by darkspawn for centuries. Likewise, there's Caridin's journal, which not only spoils how golems are made as early as Ortan Thaig, but also somehow survived the millennium since it was written.
> 
> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated. If you're enjoying the story - spread the word! Message boards, tell your fandom friends, whatever. I'm trying to get more exposure for this fic.


	27. Orzammar Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes wrap things up in Orzammar and attend to further business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017.

_Caridin's Journal  
940, 45th day, 5th year of the reign of King Valtor: I have done it. The vision the ancestors gave me has come to fruition. Today a man sat up from my forge, a man of living stone and steel. I called him golem, for the legend of those great statues animated by the dead. They are our future and our salvation._

_940, 60th day, 5th year of the reign of King Valtor: It is a horrific process. Not every man could do such a thing and survive with his mind intact. I am honored that the ancestors believe I have the strength to bear this burden and forge Orzammar's defenders._

_Nothing so great may be achieved without sacrifice. Nor may stone and steel walk without a spirit to animate them._

_940, 73rd day, 5th year of the reign of King Valtor: I have asked for volunteers. Some few answered, men of the Warrior Caste, younger sons with no property, no chance for marriage. They want to defend Orzammar from the horrors these humans have unleashed. They want to live forever in a body stronger than the finest armor. They do not ask to speak with those who have gone before._

_I have put off saying this, even in these pages. But I must say it now. My golems will be powered by their deaths. These brave warriors come to me, naked as the day they were born. I dress them in a skin of armor, so large it makes the burliest look no more than a babe, the anvil their first and final cradle._

_We are surrounded by a mile of earth on all sides. No one hears the screams as I pour molten lyrium through the eyeholes, the mouth, every joint and chink in the armor. They silence quickly, but the smell lingers, just a trace of blood in the greater stench of hot metal. I must work fast. The armor is malleable now, as I shape it with hammer and tongs._

_It is not long before it moves beneath my hands, writhing and twisting with every blow. It speaks again now, a low moan, but I have learned to tune it out. I can afford no error in this craft. There can be no melted slag blinding the eyes, nor an unhewn bit of granite shackling the leg. They groan at my work, but would they rather be broken, crippled? Those I have spoken to tell me of the pain, but could they see themselves, they would see perfection._

_\--From the journal of Caridin_

—ROTG—

The group sat in the cave that had seen the death of two Paragons. Silence reigned as each of them tried to come to terms with everything they had seen over the course of the day.

“Well, that pretty much beat the sod out of how I imagined it,” Oghren finally said. “You ready to head back yet and share the news?”

“Been a long day,” Daylen added, rubbing his face. He sent out a wave of rejuvenation magic, refreshing the party. “We need to get back to the Assembly. We’re fighting time here.”

Returning the same way they had come was impossible – Branka’s trap had blocked the tunnel. With help from Shale, the group climbed the ledge to the Paragon’s camp, recovering her notes and journals she had salvaged from Ortan Thaig. The tunnel was loaded with traps, presumably to prevent darkspawn from reaching Branka’s camp, and a search of the tunnel revealed a cache of preserved stores and equipment, presumably stockpiled to ensure the Paragon would be able to last in the Deep Roads as long as possible. The group replenished their own stockpiles of food, and Oghren disposed of his damaged armor, finding replacements in the stash.

Following the tunnel, the group found themselves back in Bownammar, emerging behind the broodmother’s charred corpse and punching through a thick layer of the corrupted flesh that covered the walls and floor. Backtracking through the fortress, the group ran into Kardol.

“No luck, eh Warden?” the Legionnaire asked.

“You know how you said we were as likely to find a dozen Paragons as one?” Daylen asked. “We found _two_.”

“Impossible,” Kardol scoffed. “Branka was the only Paragon in four generations.”

“But golems don’t age,” Daylen replied. “Long story short, both Paragons are dead, but we got what we needed.”

“Seems like you’re leaving some details out,” Kardol said.

“I am,” Daylen confirmed, his eyes dark. “I’ve seen some things that I need a few dozen drinks to forget. Good news is, Bownammar is mostly clear of darkspawn. We killed a broodmother down there.”

The Legionnaire seemed surprised. “Impressive, Warden. We didn’t know there was one in Bownammar.”

“She was part of House Branka,” Daylen explained. “Now we need to get moving back to Orzammar. Got a king to crown.”

They had made it almost all the way back to Ortan Thaig when they ran into more darkspawn. Trekking down a side tunnel to bypass a collapsed section of the Deep Roads, the party unexpectedly found an ogre charging down the tunnel at them.

“Everyone get back!” Daylen shouted, mustering a spell. The darkspawn screamed as the lightning made contact, but the magic arced from the ogre and made contact with a nearby cluster of lyrium, the magic flaring out of control as the lyrium interacted violently with it and arcing lightning bolts across the tunnels, the ground shaking from the discharge.

“Move!” Alistair urged, pushing forward. “The tunnel’s coming down!”

The group dashed past the injured ogre, the tunnel collapsing behind them and burying the darkspawn alive. More darkspawn were ahead, fleeing the tunnel collapse as choking dust filled the air. It seemed as if the entire world was shaking, the noise coming from all directions as the group sprinted for their lives. Eventually, the shaking subsided, dust still clogging the air.

“Everyone make it out?” Daylen asked, coughing and creating a ball of magelight. “Sound off!”

“Ow,” Alistair rasped. “Alistair’s all right.”

“I made it, too,” Leliana called.

“Zevran’s still here,” Wynne reported. “Knocked his head, but he’ll make it.”

“Aye, I made it, Warden.” Oghren rasped, pulling his helmet off and spitting dusty phlegm on the floor.

“It will be glad to know I made it as well,” Shale rumbled from the back.

“Sten?” Daylen called. “Morrigan? Cupcake?”

A deep, rattling cough sounded, and Sten finally spoke up. “I am alive, Warden. I may be injured.”

“Wynne, check him out. Where’s Morrigan?” Daylen asked.

“I didn’t see her,” Leliana said. Daylen’s eyes widened.

“I was last in line,” Shale replied. “She was not behind me.”

“ _Then where did she go_?” Daylen demanded. “Morrigan! Cupcake?”

Two barks sounded, and Cupcake and another dog came running towards the group from ahead. The other dog’s shape blurred and reformed into Morrigan, the mage dusting herself off. “Four legs beat two,” she said in explanation.

Daylen let out a relieved breath. “Good to see you two made it out.” Cupcake stood on his back legs and planted both paws on Daylen’s chest, licking his face. “Yes, yes, I’m glad you’re all right, boy!”

Wynne tapped the Warden on the shoulder. “Sten and Zevran are all right,” she reported. “We should move on. I doubt that that tremor went unnoticed.”

“Agreed,” Daylen said. “Let’s…” he sighed. “Darkspawn coming.”

A veritable flood of the blighted creatures were coming down the tunnel at them, roaring and screeching. Their cries echoed off the walls, rebounding and distorting across the tunnels.

“Daylen, we’re boxed in!” Alistair shouted, falling into a guard position at the front of the group.

The Warden incinerated the lead cluster of darkspawn with a fireball, yelling over the din. “Then let’s carve our way out!”

“Where? The tunnel caved in!”

“Just hold them back! I need time, I’m out of mana!”

Oghren bashed a genlock’s head open, shoving the body back to trip up a hurlock and slamming the blade of his axe into the downed creature’s unprotected back. “We’re trapped, Warden. Backs to the wall.”

“Sod that,” Daylen responded, slinging his staff and drawing his sword. “That just means the way out is through! Stay close!”

Kicking a genlock in the chest, Daylen caught a bolt on his shield and nodded to Alistair, the two Wardens pushing forward and hacking their way into the oncoming darkspawn. Sten sheathed his greatsword and drew his crossbow, firing over their shoulders alongside Leliana and Zevran as Wynne weaved magic. The party’s weapons burst into flame, and darkspawn flesh sizzled as Daylen and Alistair pressed the advantage. Morrigan dropped a devastating entropic spell farther ahead, darkspawn crumpling under the effects of the deadly cloud. Cupcake trailed behind, finishing a critically wounded darkspawn with a bite to the throat.

“Push!” Daylen bellowed, stabbing a hurlock in the neck and spitting tainted blood out of his mouth as Alistair beheaded a genlock, the spray catching the two Wardens on the side. The two bulled forward, blades dancing and flames spitting as they carved into darkspawn armor and set tainted flesh alight.

An ogre came into view, wading through the darkspawn, only to be downed in seconds as the archers and mages focused their efforts on it, blinding, freezing, and shocking it in turn as Daylen and Alistair hacked the nearest darkspawn into pieces.

“Next right turn!” Oghren bellowed above the howls of the darkspawn. Smashing a genlock’s face in with a strike from a spiked buckler he’d ripped from a nearby pile of bones and grabbing the darkspawn’s hand-axe, the dwarf chopped open the genlock’s neck and shoving it back, keeping their flank clear. “It’ll take us back around!”

“You heard the dwarf,” Daylen called, letting go of his sword as it stuck in a hurlock’s breastplate and blasting the darkspawn with lightning. “We’re almost out of here!” A shriek pounced on him, ripping his shield away and slamming a spiked gauntlet into his unguarded shoulder, the blades punching through his shields and hardened skin. Daylen howled in pain, punching the darkspawn in the face, searching blindly for a vulnerable spot on the creature as it twisted the blade. His fingers found purchase and Daylen pulled, the shriek earning its name as flesh tore and the grip it held on Daylen weakening. It gurgled as Daylen shoved it back, blood streaming from his injured shoulder and his arm hanging uselessly by his side.

It was only when Daylen looked at the dripping hunk of flesh in his hand that he realized he’d ripped the darkspawn’s tongue out. Dropping it and drawing his staff, Daylen pumped healing magic into his arm, feeling the flesh knitting even as the wound continued to ache.

Alistair moved to cover the gap, Oghren pushing up alongside as the Warden gulped down a lyrium potion and felt his mana surging. “Let’s thin the crowd, shall we?” Nudging the warriors aside, Daylen mustered his magic, unleashing a massive torrent of lightning down the narrow tunnel, arcing it from darkspawn to darkspawn. When he finally let up, the tunnel fell silent and the group realized the immediate fight was over.

“Well, that did the trick,” Daylen rasped, his throat dry and raw.

Alistair sighed. “Because that worked so well last time.”

The Warden shook his head, retrieving his weapons. “Sod off. It worked. Anyone hurt?”

“Besides you?” Alistair shook his head. “No, we’re all right. Wynne patched up anyone who got hit.”

Daylen nodded, spitting out tainted blood. “Let’s keep moving. I have no idea what’s ahead. We’re off the map that Bhelen gave us.”

“I know where we are,” Shale said suddenly. “Cadash Thaig is not far from here.”

Daylen laughed in spite of the situation. “I told you we’d go there!”

Alistair patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t…Daylen, don’t play that off like it was intentional.”

“Shush. Let me have this.”

Cadash Thaig was remarkably intact, the stone of the Deep Roads flowing easily into streets and alleys between houses. The road abruptly terminated, however, as a fallen building blocked the way, the road sloping downwards to meet a pool of water.

“I knew that dwarf was full of it,” Alistair grumbled, looking at the flooded alley. “Oh, sure, the Deep Roads don’t leak.” Daylen glanced over at Leliana, who shrugged and shook her head.

“Well, there’s a side tunnel off that way,” Zevran suggested. “There may be another way out, or even a way to the surface.”

Sure enough, the tunnel led them into Cadash Thaig proper, and Shale paused, putting a hand on a wall. “This is it. Cadash Thaig.”

“Not like any other Thaig we’ve seen,” Daylen commented. The thaig was well-lit, with sunlight streaming through the roof and grass and moss growing underfoot. “This is where you’re from?”

“Perhaps,” Shale replied. “It may also be where I was found. These ruins are always overrun by vermin. There may be something noteworthy further in, however.” The group moved into the Thaig, a handful of darkspawn falling easily to the group’s combined strength as the Thaig opened up. “Was this a home, once?” Shale mused aloud as they wandered deeper into the city. “Did I live here?”

“This actually isn’t so bad,” Daylen allowed. “Still not a fan of living under a mountain, but there’s plants, light, and…is that a _river_?”

“It looks like,” Alistair said, dipping a finger into the water. “It’s certainly got a current.”

“Downside is it looks like the ground has buckled in places,” Daylen continued, looking at a pair of buildings that had shifted and fallen against each other. A bridge ran between them, crossing over the river. The group crossed the bridge quickly, catching a good view of the city ahead at the apex of the bridge.

“I see nothing,” Shale sighed. “Whatever was once here is gone.”

A pack of deepstalkers were waiting on the other side of the bridge, along with more darkspawn.

“Watch out!” Daylen shouted, braining a genlock with his staff as it got too close. Drawing his sword, he parried another genlock's axe before cracking it upside the head with his staff, discharging a bolt of arcane energy directly into the darkspawn's face. Stabbing the sword into the packed earth, Daylen left the weapon there, lobbing a fireball into the heaviest concentration of darkspawn. As the mage rooted around in his bandolier for a lyrium potion, Alistair backed up, fighting a trio of hurlocks that were completely oblivious to Zevran sidling up behind them. Two stabs severed spines, and Alistair lopped the third's head off as Zevran dipped low, his daggers finishing the two darkspawn with fast, efficient cuts. Leliana was firing arrows as quickly as she could draw them, and Morrigan was busily casting spell after spell, entropic magic slowing, disabling, or weakening the darkspawn that were still charging through the crevice.

“There's too many!” Zevran hollered.

In response, Daylen lobbed the empty vial into a hurlock's face, before opening up with gouts of flame from both his staff and his free hand as Leliana finished the stunned hurlock with an arrow to the face. The lead darkspawn ignited, and he followed up with twin blasts of lightning, before hurling a blob of conjured grease past the front lines, tripping up the darkspawn in back as Zevran readied an incendiary flask. Daylen nodded to the elf and grabbed his sword as the critically injured darkspawn in front came close enough to lodge pointy things in.

Zevran chucked the flask, the grease igniting and blazing to life. Burning grease spattered as darkspawn charged blindly through it and slipped, and the grease already on the darkspawn ignited as it came close to the flames.

Within another minute, it was over.

Daylen leaned heavily on his staff, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Everyone still alive?”

“More or less,” Alistair said, downing an elfroot potion. “Maker, the stench of those things burning…”

Daylen nodded. “Like six-century-old rot.”

“Keep an eye out,” Alistair warned the others as they rounded a corner. “There’s more of the darkspawn about.”

“Always are,” Oghren grunted.

“I am uncertain of what I hope to find, here,” Shale said softly as they cut between two houses, pushing past more blocked roads where the ground had shifted over the ages.

“That seems like a good place to look,” Daylen said as they crossed another bridge, pointing. There was a truly enormous statue ahead, dwarfing even the statues of the Paragons in the Hall of Heroes. The statue displayed a dwarf carrying an enormous hammer, light streaming from above onto something at the dwarf’s feet.

At the other end of the bridge, the street was almost entirely flooded, and another bridge led towards the statue, making the decision of where to go next easy for everyone who didn’t want soggy boots. “There are still darkspawn around, but just a few,” Alistair said.

A screeching cry echoed off the walls of the Thaig, and Daylen groaned. “Shrieks. Wonderful.”

“You gonna rip the tongues out of these, too?” Alistair asked.

“Only if I have to,” Daylen muttered. “Incoming!” Several shrieks were bounding towards them, one dropping immediately as Leliana’s arrow caught it through the eye. Another fell back as Morrigan’s spell began eating into its face, thrashing and clawing at its own flesh. A third was petrified by Wynne, shattered a moment later by a lump of stone from Daylen. Only three made it to the group, set upon quickly by the full strength of the party and quickly finished off. Alistair casually stabbed the critically injured shriek that was trying to claw blindly towards them, its face gushing tainted blood. The darkspawn screeched in pain, and Alistair stabbed it again, the creature finally falling still.

“One more, you think?” The warrior asked, looking at Daylen. The mage nodded. “Big, though.”

“Probably an ogre,” Daylen muttered.

He was right. As the group rounded the base of the enormous statue, an ogre with makeshift armor strapped to its body charged them, forcing the group to scatter. Shale managed to meet the ogre’s charge, bracing against the impact. The golem was driven back several feet as it pushed against the ogre, Shale’s feet digging furrows into the earth as the two struggled.

Then the rest of the party got involved. Sten’s blade bit deep into the ogre’s forearm as Oghren’s axe and Zevran’s blades ripped into the beast’s hamstrings. The ogre fell and lashed out, smacking Sten away as the rest of the group hacked and slashed at whatever bits of the ogre they could reach. The ogre thrashed, forcing the Warden’s party to scatter or be thrown by a blow as Sten was. As it forced itself to its knees, Oghren found himself behind the ogre and jumped, grabbing it by the horns and dragging its head back, leaving its throat vulnerable. Seeing the opportunity, Daylen drew his sword and leapt, thrusting the blade up and into the ogre’s neck. He felt the point of the blade penetrate bone and twisted, the ogre spasming violently and then collapsing to one side. Oghren tucked and rolled, managing to push himself to his feet as Daylen and the ogre landed in a heap.

Alistair recovered his breath first. “Is Sten all right?”

The Qunari was lying flat on his back, his face pale and sweaty. “I am injured, but will live,” he reported.

“Not many people could survive a blow like that,” Alistair replied as Wynne began tending to the injured warrior. “You’re a hard one, Sten.”

“Ow,” Daylen croaked, half-pinned beneath the ogre. “Can someone get this thing off of me?”

It took most of the party lifting together to shift the ogre’s weight enough for Daylen to scramble free, the Warden pausing just long enough to rip his sword free of the corpse. “That was a good idea, Oghren,” he said, wiping the tainted blood from his blade.

“Ogres are nasty business,” the dwarf replied, kicking the corpse. “They walk off most wounds quickly, so you have to wreck either the heart or the brain. Taking a limb slows them down plenty, but you want to burn the corpse to be sure.”

“Works for me,” Daylen muttered. “You’ve fought a fair amount of darkspawn in your day?”

“All Warrior Caste dwarves have,” Oghren said. “Not much else to fight in the Deep Roads.”

“Well, if you’d like to fight them elsewhere,” Daylen suggested, “why not come with us? Fight the Blight on the surface?”

“What, leave Orzammar for good?” Oghren asked. “Become a surfacer dwarf?”

“You could start over,” Daylen pressed. “You’re a good fighter, Oghren. We could use your skills. Plus, I’ve tasted dwarven ale. Its shit compared to what’s on the surface.”

The dwarf looked unsure. “I’ll think about it,” he promised.

Daylen nodded, spotting some crystal clusters nearby. “In the meantime, Shale? These crystals look like the ones you have, but higher quality.”

“They are,” Shale agreed, inspecting the brilliant crystals. “Much higher quality.” It only took a few minutes to harvest the crystals and set them aside for later use, and Shale inspected a stone slab at the base of the statue. “This…” Shale’s eyes widened. “This I remember. It has dates, and names. This is to honor those who volunteered, those who became golems!” The golem looked closer at the list. “And there is my name. Shayle, of House Cadash. Just as Caridin said.” She turned to the Warden. “I remember, now. I remember Shayle. That…was me.”

“That’s wonderful!” Daylen said sincerely.

“Wonderful to remember being a soft, squishy creature of flesh? Perhaps.” Shale paused. “I will need to think on these things I have learned. Perhaps I will speak to it of them soon. For now, let us carry on as we have.”

“As you wish, Shale.”

“So you were a dwarf,” Oghren said.

“And?” The golem looked down at him. “What of it?”

The berserker chuckled. “So essentially right now, you’re a naked girl dwarf.”

“Who is also made of stone,” Shale snapped. “Erase the mental image in your head, drunkard, or I will crush it out with my fists.”

Oghren laughed. “Hot.”

—ROTG—

Daylen poked his head out of the Deep Roads entrance, squinting against the sunlight. “Wow. Open air. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.” Alistair followed him out, shading his eyes. “Where are we?”

“Not sure,” Alistair said. “We got lost down there. We’re still in Ferelden, I know that much. Somewhere in the Bannorn, I think.”

“Then we’re still ahead of the main line of the horde,” Daylen replied. “So we’ve at least got that going for us. Let’s start heading west. We can’t be too far from the Imperial Highway.”

Oghren paused as he exited the Deep Roads. “Give me a moment.”

“Sure, take your time,” Daylen said. “You all right?”

Oghren was staring at the open sky. “By the Stone, I feel like I’m about to fall off the world with all that sky up there.”

“Well, take your time,” Daylen assured him. “It’ll pass, but I need you ready to fight. As much as you’re uneasy out here, that’s how bad I am in there.”

“If I could fight Randar Vollney’s second after downing fifteen lichen-ales in half an hour, I’m not going to be put off by a high sodding ceiling.” He shook himself. “Well, let’s get moving. We’re losing…whatchacallit? Daylight.”

It took the group two days to make it back to the Imperial Highway and get a proper idea of where they were. Pushing north, they found themselves passing Kinloch Hold within a day, and the Warden led the group across the lake again.

“You return,” Irving greeted them as they entered the building. “What brings you back here?”

“Well, I bring news,” Daylen replied. “Dagna, of Orzammar, wishes to study magic.”

Irving’s eyebrows  rose. “Orzammar? Indeed? You have piqued my curiosity. It is common knowledge that dwarves lack the…aptitude, for spell craft. She will never be able to weave the simplest magic, no matter how hard she tries.”

“I pointed that out to her,” Daylen explained. “She doesn’t care, and still wants to learn. I think all she wants is to study the theory of magic. Her enthusiasm was…infectious, really.” Daylen gave his old mentor a grin. “Honestly, both Wynne and I were impressed. She’s already studied a great deal of the available texts on magic. She’s a smith, so she’ll bring knowledge of dwarven lyrium smithing to the Circle.”

“Fascinating,” Irving mused. “I suppose the Circle should be flattered.”

“She wants to learn,” Daylen went on. “A worthy goal on its own, but she’s willing to give up caste and clan for this.”

Irving nodded. “I see. If she is willing to sacrifice so much for this, then we should feel honored. Tell Dagna, of Orzammar, that this path will not be easy, but if she chooses it, then she is welcome here at the Circle. She will live and study with the Tranquil and perhaps the apprentices, when it is appropriate.”

Wynne smiled broadly. “She’s going to be so overjoyed.”

Irving sighed. “If only the Circle was in better shape. I fear she may be disappointed when she arrives.”

“I think she’ll be very interested in what happened,” Daylen said with a shrug.

“The more I think about it, the more I like the idea,” Irving replied. “I shall take this as an indication that perhaps things are starting to look up for the Circle. Thank you.”

Daylen left Wynne to hammer out the details with Irving and found Godwin quietly studying. “Ah, Warden,” the squirrely mage said. “What brings you back to the Circle?”

“I believe we have some mutual friends outside the Circle,” Daylen replied. “A dwarf named Rogek mentioned you.”

“Rogek? He’s a personal friend,” Godwin said. “Sometimes we…you know, correspond. Did he, um…have anything for me?”

“Lyrium, but I bought it, so you’re dealing with me now.”

The mage’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, excellent. I’ll take that off your hands right now. What about, say, fifty sovereigns? That’s a good price, no?”

“I paid fifty to get it,” Daylen lied, “and it wasn’t easy getting here. Seventy-five.”

Godwin groaned. “I don’t _have_ seventy-five sovereigns. I have sixty-five, and this dagger I stumbled upon in the tower. Will that do?”

“If that’s all you can give me, that works,” Daylen replied, feigning inconvenience. “Here’s your lyrium.”

Godwin pocketed the box, counting out the coin and setting the dagger on the table. “You have your gold, and I have my lyrium. Everyone’s happy. Out of curiosity, do you know why this lyrium took so long to get here?”

“Dwarven king passed away, so there’s trouble in Orzammar,” Daylen explained. “They’re keeping people out.”

“Dwarves and their politics,” Godwin sighed. “Always causing trouble. How is the situation now?”

“We’re actually on our way back to resolve it,” Daylen said. “The unrest might continue for some time.”

“Well, I just wanted to know if I should expect another late delivery.”

“That’s an awful lot of lyrium, Godwin,” Daylen said. “You’re not thinking of getting into trouble, are you?”

“No, no,” Godwin insisted, shaking his head. “Nothing of the sort. I saw what happened to Uldred. But you see, the Templars use lyrium too. They cannot manipulate natural energies like mages can, but they need to be able to fight us.” The big problem with lyrium is that it has…diminishing returns. And the Templars become dependent on it.”

“Ah, right,” Daylen nodded in understanding. “And of course they receive the amount they need to not be completely dependent on the Chantry. So you deal the lyrium to them so they can keep up, and nobody wants to make noise because they’re all involved. You must make a lot of money off of this.”

“I get by,” Godwin said. “More than you’d think goes into just maintaining this.”

“Well, stay out of trouble, Godwin.”

—ROTG—

The group made all possible speed back to Orzammar, borrowing a wagon team used for lyrium shipments from the Circle. It still took several days to reach Orzammar’s gates, and Daylen, Alistair, and Oghren were all but sprinting through the Hall of Heroes with their precious cargo in hand.

Unfortunately, another pack of Harrowmont loyalists were waiting in the Commons, but Daylen snarled, freezing the lot of them in place as he ran by. “No time to talk, kill me later!”

Dagna was waiting by the stairs to the Diamond District, and Daylen waved as they went by. “Did you-”

“I’ll be back, but it’s good news!” Daylen hollered over his shoulder as they mounted the stairs.

As the group reached the Assembly chambers, they slowed down, Daylen and Alistair panting lightly. Oghren was puffing heavily. “You’ve got longer legs and all, but how are you not winded?”

“Warden stamina,” Alistair said, rubbing at a stitch in his side.

“Lords of the Assembly, I call for order!” the Steward was shouting as they entered. “This argument gets us nowhere!”

“Then why these delaying tactics?” Bhelen asked. “I call for a vote right now. My father has one living child to assume the Aeducan throne. Who would deny him that?”

“Your father made me swear on his deathbed that you would not succeed him,” Harrowmont replied coldly.

The guard that accompanied the Wardens and Oghren in spoke up. “I apologize for the interruption, Lord Steward,” he said, “but the Grey Warden has returned.”

Bhelen smiled triumphantly. “Well, Warden? What news do you bring?”

“I was sent to find and if possible retrieve Paragon Branka,” Daylen replied, raising his voice. “I found her. And I also found the lost Paragon Caridin.” Gasps of disbelief echoed around the chamber.

“Caridin was trapped in the body of a golem,” Oghren chimed in. “This Warden granted him the mercy he sought, releasing him and destroying the Anvil of the Void. Before he died, Caridin forged a crown for Orzammar’s next king, chosen by the ancestors themselves!”

Harrowmont scoffed. “I would like to believe Oghren’s word, but it’s well-known the Grey Warden is Bhelen’s hireling!”

“I am _no one’s_ hireling,” Daylen snapped. “Both of you attempted to use me as your cats-paw against the other. My only interest in your little succession crisis is getting the armies I need to end the Blight. Were it not for the darkspawn at our doors I would gladly leave the lot of you to fight it out among yourselves. You doubt that I found the Paragon Branka?” Daylen unslung the shield he had been carrying, dropping it on the floor with a dull _clang_. “Her personal shield, forged by her own hand in the Deep Roads and bearing her heraldry and her mark.” He unhooked the mace that hung at his belt. “Her personal mace, also bearing her mark, forged before she led her house into the Deep Roads.” He dropped it on the floor as well. He reached into his pack, retrieving the enormous crown Caridin had made. “Caridin created this crown himself in front of my eyes, on my honor as a Warden, and it bears the symbols of both House Ortan and House Caridin. If you require further proof, I can give you directions to Caridin’s smithy, where the wreckage of the Anvil still sits.”

Steward Bandelor examined the crown. “This _is_ of Paragon make, and does bear the ancient seals of House Ortan and House Caridin. Tell us, Warden: whom did the Paragons choose?”

“The Paragons chose Bhelen,” Daylen said, carefully interpreting what each Paragon had said about the election.

Bhelen’s eyes lit up. “At last. This farce is ended and I can take my rightful place on my father’s throne.” The dwarves around the room began to drum their staves on the floor in unison as Bhelen descended the stairs towards where Shaper Czibor waited with the crown. The prince knelt, and Bandelor placed the crown upon his head.

“Let the Memories find you worthy,” Czibor declared, “first amidst the lords of the houses, the king of Orzammar.”

King Bhelen stood, soaking in the adulation from the assembled lords, and turned to face Harrowmont. “Do _you_ acknowledge me as king?”

Harrowmont looked broken. “I…cannot defy a Paragon,” he sighed. “The throne is yours…King Bhelen.” He slowly dropped to one knee, bending his head in deference.

“Then as my first act as king, I call for this man’s execution! Guards, seize him!”

“Wait, what?” Daylen squawked as a pair of guards grabbed Harrowmont by the arms. “He’s beaten! Let him retire in peace!”

“You know better than anyone the war facing us, Warden,” Bhelen said coldly. “Orzammar cannot afford to be divided. Anyone undermining my reign is serving only the darkspawn.”

The Warden opened his mouth to argue, but Alistair nudged him. “We can’t win every battle.”

Daylen sighed, nodded, and closed his mouth. “I did what you wanted, now where are my troops?”

“I will return to my palace to gather my generals and prepare our forces for the surface,” Bhelen declared. “I will see you there, Warden. You have my gratitude for all you have done for me.”

Daylen looked his friend in the eyes as Bhelen departed. “Did we just really mess up?”

“Possible,” Alistair said. “Not much we can do about it now. Come on, we’ve got an army to get.”

“No sense in trying to talk to Bhelen now,” Oghren interjected. “He’ll have deshyrs swearing loyalty to him for an hour or two, at least.”

Daylen sighed. “Well, we’ve got other people to talk to. I just hope we didn’t hand the throne of Orzammar to the wrong person.”

Their first stop was the Shaperate. “I started to worry,” Orta said when Daylen found her. “I didn’t know if you were ever coming back. Did you find any records? Any sign of the old Ortan Thaig?”

“I found the whole blasted Thaig,” Daylen replied. “I also found lineage records.” He passed over the records. “Be careful, they’re _very_ old.”

Orta’s eyes bugged out as she took the records, gently opening them to the most recent entries. “That’s my great-grandmother’s name! And her husband! Oh, great ancestors…It’s me! I _am_ an Ortan! Oh, thank you!” She shut the records gently, holding them to her chest. “I have to take these to the Assembly right away! Find me there. Once these are acknowledged, I’ll give you any reward!” She dashed off, and Daylen spotted the Shaper of Memories waiting in his usual position.

“Most impressive, Warden,” Shaper Czibor said. “King Bhelen’s ascent to his father’s throne has been recorded in the Memories.”

Daylen retrieved the tracings they had taken from the list at Caridin’s smithy from his pack. “I have some tracings you might be interested in.”

“A list of names,” Czibor said. “Most of these clans no longer exist. Is this authentic?”

“You bet your hairy arse it is,” Oghren replied. “Taken from a tablet in Caridin’s fortress, no less.”

“Then…is it true?” Czibor’s eyes widened. “The rumors of Caridin’s so-called volunteers? Extraordinary!” He flipped through the tracings, skimming them quickly. “I would love to make a copy of this. The Shaperate has never had much information on Caridin and his golems, much less proof of this magnitude. I hope some gold will suffice as a reward. I must inform the Shaperate at once!”

“While we’re here,” Oghren said as Daylen pocketed the gold, “those notes I translated prove that the Legion could be connected to a noble house. The Legion could be elevated to minor nobility.”

“Make it happen, Oghren,” Daylen ordered. “I’ve got another redhead to speak to.” He looked to Cupcake. “Can you find her, boy?”

A few minutes later, Daylen caught up with Cupcake, who was sitting next to Dagna, tail wagging.

“It’s been quite a while,” Dagna said, scratching the hound behind the ears and giggling as Cupcake licked her face. “Enough time to get to the Circle and back, I hope?”

“I did make it to the Circle,” Daylen replied. “Senior Enchanter Wynne and I spoke with First Enchanter Irving. The Circle is flattered by your desire to study magic and you are welcome to come to the Circle at Kinloch Hold. You’ll live alongside the Tranquil, study alongside the apprentices.”

“Ancestors bless you, I can’t believe it!” Dagna squealed in joy. “There hasn’t even been a dwarven observer in the Circle since-”

“Ureldin,” Daylen finished. “Several hundred years ago.”

“I need to pack,” Dagna said, thinking aloud. “No, my parents would get suspicious. I need to _go_. Is there anything I should bring? Books? Tuition?”

“The mages need every ally they can get, but if you have any sentimental items you'd like to take with you or smithing gear you think might be useful, you should bring it along,” Daylen replied. “You said your father was Janar?” Dagna nodded. “Would it help if I distracted him for a while so you could pack?”

Dagna’s eyes were suspiciously watery. “You would do that?”

“I sort of have a problem with authority,” Daylen confided. “Go get your stuff. I’ll keep Janar busy. Meet me in the Hall of Heroes.”

Selling Janar most of the lower-grade equipment they had salvaged in the Deep Roads bought enough time for Dagna to sneak by with a pack heavy with her belongings. As they left the smith’s shop, Daylen spotted Filda sitting in front of the statue, her head bent in prayer. “You’ve returned,” the dwarf said as Daylen approached. “With all the excitement over the new king, I never expected you to remember my poor son.”

“I don’t think I could forget him,” Daylen said softly. “We found Ruck, ma’am.”

“You did? What happened?”

“He died in the Deep Roads,” Daylen lied. “From what we could tell, he didn’t…didn’t go gently. The boy had a broken mace in his hand and a shield nearby and about fifty dead darkspawn in front of him. Best I could tell, he got separated from the expedition and got ambushed by darkspawn. He made them work for it.”

“Oh, my poor boy,” Filda whispered. “I…I guess I knew, but…I just wish I could have seen him one last time.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Daylen rasped.

Filda reached into a pack she had set nearby and retrieved a buckler. “Here. This is my husband’s masterwork, the first shield he smithed. I…don’t have anyone to save it for anymore. I’d like you to have it, for what you risked to bring me this news.”

Daylen swallowed hard, nodding silently as Filda departed. “I need a drink,” he rasped after she had left. “I’ve got a bad taste in my mouth.”

The rest of the party caught up with Alistair and Daylen in Dust Town, Rogek nodding politely as he spotted them. “Well, if it isn’t my new best friend. You make it to the tower yet?”

“Package delivered, as promised,” Daylen said. “Godwin gave me his return order, as well.”

“Excellent. I must admit I wasn’t sure I’d see you back here. Now, that was ten sovereigns we agreed to, right?”

“I believe it was twenty, actually,” Daylen replied.

“Uh, right,” Rogek said quickly. “Just testing. If you weren’t paying attention, I’d know you didn’t need the coin, right?” He counted out the coin. “I just hope things at the Circle have settled down now. There’s still money to be made.”

—ROTG—

“You have proven yourself and more, Warden,” Bhelen said. “Without your aid, I would not have taken this throne so smoothly or so soon.”

“Congratulations,” Daylen deadpanned. “Bravo. Now where are my troops?”

“My generals are already preparing for a mission to the surface,” the king replied. “When you have need of us, you shall have every able-bodied dwarf in Orzammar. Since you did more than I expected, I offer a personal reward as well.” He held out a large, ornate maul made of silverite. “This maul was favored by my brother Trian. Take it with you as a reminder of your ties to Orzammar.” Daylen’s face remained impassive, but he slowly accepted the weapon. “Now, we both have much to do, so if there is nothing else…”

“I’ll return to the surface,” Daylen finished. “I’ve got a Blight to stop.”

“Good luck, Warden,” Bhelen said sincerely. “May we both crush our enemies.”

As the group left the palace, passing a long line of would-be loyal nobles, Kardol was waiting outside, his helmet in his hand. “If I’d heard it second hand I’d have called it a sodding lie,” the dwarf chuckled. “Warden, we’ve got a king because of you. The rest, impressive, but the Legion is grateful most for restored leadership. It frees us to bring the fight to the darkspawn properly.”

“Can I count on you to fight the Blight at my side?” Daylen asked.

“Nay, our place is down here. When you break the Blight, and you’ve got the skill, we’ll make sure they have nowhere to retreat. You’ll have us indirectly. That’s more than any surfacer can say.”

“We need you topside,” Daylen pressed. “Show the world your skill.”

Kardol sighed. “You alone have the skill to back up your words. If you hadn’t cleared Bownammar like you did, I’d tell you no. Each of the Legion owes our homeland a death, but if our lives are better shed on the surface, so be it!”

“I’d say take some with you to the surface, leave the rest to cut off the darkspawn’s retreat,” Daylen suggested.

“I’ll see if it can be done,” Kardol replied. “Back to Orzammar when we win, though. I’ll not stay topside to lose my Stone sense.”

“I look forward to fighting alongside the Legion,” Daylen said, giving a predator’s smile. “I just hope the surface armies don’t mind being shown up.”

Kardol barked out a laugh. “We’ll show ‘em how it’s done!”

The group caught up with Orta in the Assembly chambers, the dwarf eagerly bouncing from foot to foot. “My name’s Orta,” the dwarf said. “After the old Ortan House. They gave our seat back, and the records show which houses still owe House Ortan money. One day, I will be able to properly thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

“Well, best we can tell, the old Ortan Thaig is under the West Hills, in Ferelden,” Daylen replied. “Probably a good place to trade with the surface. If your family truly reclaims its status, remember that the Wardens helped make it possible. Until then, your happiness is enough.”

“House Ortan will not forget this kindness,” Orta said proudly, before giggling. “Oh, didn’t that sound official?”

Linking up with Dagna at the exit to Orzammar, Daylen put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Are you sure about this? Once you leave, there’s no going back.”

“I’m sure,” Dagna replied firmly. “Let’s go.”

They exited Orzammar under a dark, starlight sky, and Dagna looked up for several moments, staring into the vast expanse. “It’s…it’s beautiful,” she said softly.

“I know,” Daylen replied. “The first night I left the Circle, I looked up at the sky too.”

Oghren was less enthused, standing by Leliana. “How do you stand it?” he asked. “All that open air? Sometimes I look into that big black emptiness and it's like it's swallowing me up.”

“I like it,” Leliana replied. “I like to imagine the sky goes on forever... boundless fields of stars, whirling and swirling eternally in their slow dance...”

Oghren swayed slightly. “Not... helping. I don't like looking up and seeing a great infinite nothing.”

“You know, in the old days, people said that the sky was an immense vaulted ceiling, crafted by the Maker Himself to protect the world,” Leliana said. “But the ceiling-sky covered the world in shadow, and so He set in it the sun and moon, to light up the world below. And then He made the stars, and he laid them down in curious patterns, that man would look upon them and wonder what they represented.”

“So the sky is just the inside of a great sodding cave,” Oghren surmised.

“That's what they believed,” Leliana confirmed, “And it gave them comfort.”

Oghren harrumphed. “Then why the bleeding mud did your Maker build it so high up?”

“Fair warning,” Daylen was saying to Dagna. “It gets windy, so keep your notes tucked away, and it gets _noisy_ up here. One of the shocking things for me in the Deep Roads was just how _quiet_ it is down there. Birds, bugs, other animals, our conversations, there’s a lot of noise out here.”

“Are you coming with me to the Circle?” Dagna asked.

“It’s on our way,” Daylen replied. “We’ve got a shipment of runes that Wynne haggled for stashed in the wagon, and we plan to drop them off at the Circle for use in the war effort.”

“That’s right, the Tranquil excel at enchanting,” Dagna remembered. “Their unparalleled focus allows them to manipulate the metal precisely.”

Daylen grinned in spite of himself. “It’s a shame you can’t work with Sandal. He’s a dwarf, like you, and a bit of an odd duck, but he’s the best at enchanting I’ve ever seen. Maybe you’ll meet him at some point, although he’s with the rest of the assembling army at Redcliffe at the moment.”

The group set off in the wagon, Sten, Leliana, Shale, Cupcake, and Daylen trotting ahead on foot as the others rode in the back and Alistair drove the wagon.

Wynne and Dagna were trading points on magical theory as Morrigan buried herself in a book. Zevran, having stolen Duncan’s sword out of its sheath at Alistair’s belt, was oiling the blade, checking it over for nicks or other signs of wear. He had just replaced it when the warrior stiffened, hopping off the wagon and looking around.

“Daylen,” Alistair called in warning, moments before the Warden flinched himself.

“I know,” Daylen finished. “I feel it too.” A piercing scream rent the air, and the two Wardens glanced at each other before sprinting in unison towards the sound, drawing their weapons.

A group of genlocks were assaulting a trading caravan, several of the wagons already set alight, a smattering of poorly-armed sellsword guards either dead or quickly dying at the hands of the raiding party. A trader was holding his own against a genlock using a mace grabbed from a dead guard, but several other darkspawn were chasing a group of civilians, snarling and spitting as they closed in. And to everyone’s surprise, a single mage was hurling spell after spell, bellowing in protective fury as he ripped into the darkspawn.

The rest of the party caught up to the Wardens as Daylen lobbed a fireball into the darkspawn pursuing the civilians. Alistair had already killed a trio of genlocks before the others joined the fight, steel and magic landing to deadly effect against darkspawn flesh.

Dagna was watching when she was knocked over the head by a genlock, the darkspawn seizing the dazed dwarf by the tunic and dragging her away.

By the time the last darkspawn hit the ground, dead, most of the guards were dead and several civilians were badly injured. Wynne immediately set to work as Daylen extinguished what remained of the wagons with a burst of frost from his staff. The Warden paused, looking around. “Where’s Dagna?”

Cupcake barked a warning, before taking off, the Warden close behind.

Dagna was dazed, her head lolling to one side and her vision blurred as the genlock, now joined by several other darkspawn, kept pulling her towards a pit in the earth. Brambles and branches tugged at her clothes as she was dragged past, and the dwarf tried to find her voice to call for help.

Then an angry howl sounded among the trees, and an equally angry shout followed it. There was the tinkling sound of glass breaking and an icy burst of wind, and the pull on the back of Dagna’s tunic disappeared. The dwarf managed to roll onto her front and scramble behind a tree as the sounds of fighting ensued, the clash of magic and screeches of dying darkspawn echoed through the trees.

A few moments later, the other Warden – Alistair, Dagna remembered dully through the pounding in her head – came crashing through the trees, the redheaded archer behind him. Alistair’s face was locked in an angry snarl as his eyes fell on Dagna. “ _Where is he_?” The dwarf pointed towards the sound of the fighting and Alistair glanced to Leliana, jerking his head at Dagna. “Look after her.” The earth shook violently, and they heard Daylen bellow triumphantly as a rumble echoed among the trees.

“Sweet Andraste, what was that?” Leliana asked, peering around the tree trunk she had taken cover behind. A plume of dust had consumed the entire clearing, and the Wardens stumbled out of it a moment later, coughing and hacking out dust. “Are you all right?”

“Peachy,” Daylen said, spitting out dusty phlegm. “Dagna, are you hurt?”

The dwarf reached up and found blood matting her hair. “I…I think so.”

The Warden checked her over. “Oh, my, that’s a nice cut you’ve got here on your scalp.” The dwarf squeaked in fear, and Daylen patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix you up.” There was a cooling sensation at the back of her head, and Dagna’s headache washed away. “You probably had a concussion as well. It’s been a rough day, huh?” Dagna nodded slowly. “Don’t worry, you’re all right.

The dust had cleared by this point, and Leliana’s jaw dropped as she saw the clearing. “By the Maker…”

Over twenty darkspawn lay in various states of dismemberment in the clearing. Half a dozen were several feet off the ground, impaled on massive ice spikes that had erupted from a long trail of ice that stretched across twenty yards of open land. An ogre lay outstretched on the ground, its head resembling a pulped orange. Others still had been incinerated, frozen and shattered, and in one case appeared to have been violently ripped apart from the inside.

“I think you made your point, Daylen,” Alistair said, poking one of the impaled darkspawn.

“I may have lost my head a bit,” Daylen admitted. “Sorry, I saw them dragging Dagna away and…well, I kept thinking back to Laryn.”

“I know what you mean,” Alistair said darkly.

“Who is Laryn?” Dagna asked.

Daylen turned, looking surprised. “Oh. Forgot you were still there. Don’t worry about it. Let’s head back.”

Daylen’s group emerged from the woods to find Wynne attempting to assist a young woman who was clutching a bundle despite a badly broken arm. “I need to get at your arm,” the enchanter was saying. “Young lady, I cannot heal your arm if you do not set down the-” the bundle shifted, cloth shifting aside to reveal a baby’s face. “Oh, dear.”

“It’s all right, I’ll hold him until you get fixed up.” Daylen said soothingly to the woman. The baby began crying as soon as Daylen took the bundle, and the Warden flinched, nearly dropping the child. “Um…Wynne? Help?”

“Support the child’s head, cradle it close, bounce a little,” the healer rattled off, not looking away from the woman’s arm. “Has he been fed?” The woman nodded mutely, tears of pain and fear still streaming down her face. “Changed recently?” Another nod. “Has he been sleeping well?” A negative shake this time. “Well, not unexpected.”

“Are we running an orphanage, now?” Morrigan asked archly as she noticed the squalling baby in Daylen’s arms.

“No orphan, just an injured mother,” Daylen replied, shifting the bundle in his arms. “I’m just holding him.” He glanced over at the mother. “Him? Her?”

“Him,” the mother said softly. “Lucas.”

“Strong name,” Daylen replied, wincing as the baby continued to cry. “Strong set of lungs on him, too.”

Wynne looked up. “I said support his head!”

Daylen shifted the boy in his arms, cradling the baby’s head in one hand. “Like this?” Wynne nodded, and the cries subsided to cooing within a minute. “Oh, thank goodness.” He brought the boy up to his face, smiling at the child. “You’re a cute little one, aren’t you?” The baby reached up, seizing hold of Daylen’s nose. “Oh. Wynne? Is this normal?”

“He got your nose?” Wynne asked knowingly, azure light flaring between her hands.

“And he’s pulling!” Daylen said in alarm as the baby tugged. “That doesn’t come off!” The baby burbled happily, letting go of the Warden’s nose. The mage spotted Morrigan glaring at him. “What?”

“That was rather foolish of you, chasing after her like that.”

“Really, Morrigan?” Daylen asked. “Now? After what we saw down in the Deep Roads?”

“You should not risk yourself-”

“I get that your anger comes from concern,” Daylen cut her off. “But I am _not_ going to leave someone to the darkspawn’s mercies. Ever. Not you, not Dagna, not someone I’ve never met. And you know full well how capable I can be in a fight. If you have any doubts, go see what I did to those darkspawn.”

Morrigan glared at him a few moments longer, before nodding. “Fine. There is another matter.”

“Hello,” Jowan said quietly.

“Wow, you do have a sense of timing,” Daylen replied, shifting the baby slightly. “Good to see you’re still alive.”

“I’ve been…trying to help,” Jowan explained.

“Don’t be scaring good Master Levyn,” the woman broke in, accepting her baby back from Daylen. “He’s saved us three times over!”

"As well he should," Daylen said, healing a man's injured arm with a practiced gesture. "He’s a Warden recruit. I thought he was dead, but I’m glad to see that he’s still helping fight the Blight in his own way.” He eyed Jowan proudly. “Three previous darkspawn attacks, eh. I'm impressed." He stepped closer and Jowan tensed, before Daylen winked. "It seems redemption suits you, 'Master Levyn.' Stay the course." Jowan nodded, and Daylen caught him by the arm as he turned to leave, pulling out his map. "Once you've gotten these people to safety, go here,” he ordered, pointing at a spot marked on the map. “Tell Levi Dryden I sent you. You'll be safe there, and we’ll be along as soon as we can. No Templars, no demons."

"Thank you, my friend," Jowan replied, before addressing the survivors. “Everyone, let’s move. The Warden has more…important matters to attend to.”

“Take good care of my recruit!” Daylen called. “He’s a good man!”

“Who was that?” Dagna asked.

“A blood mage I helped escape the Circle and then helped escape Chantry justice,” Daylen replied casually.

The dwarf was flabbergasted. “ _What_?”

“Suppose I should tell you now,” Daylen sighed. “The Chantry has a lot of laws and rules they like to repeat over and over, but they don’t always know what’s best. Be safe in your studies, but remember, anyone in a position of power will say whatever it takes to keep them in power.”

—ROTG—

That night, Alistair was speaking with Wynne. “So you... mentioned you had a son? What happened to him?”

“I honestly don't know, Alistair,” the enchanter said. “He was... taken from me. Such births are seldom, as there are ways to prevent it, but it does happen. And any child born to a Circle mage belongs to the Chantry.”

“I... didn't know. I'm sorry.”

“It's all right. It was a long time ago. A very long time ago.”

“Couldn't you do something about it?” Alistair asked.

“Do what?” Wynne asked. “I was weak from the birthing process and there were...” She paused, shaking her head. “No, there was nothing I could do.”

“Do you think about him?”

“All the time,” Wynne said softly.

Zevran nudged Morrigan. “Such sinister glares do you a disservice, dear Morrigan. Yours should be a face that smiles.”

“Do tell,” the witch replied dryly.

“Has no one told you?” Zevran asked. “Perhaps that is not surprising, considering you have lived such a sheltered life. Were you a woman of the city, you would be accustomed to men showering you with praise and gifts.”

“I know as much of men as I need to. I know when one is indulging in pointless flattery, for instance.”

“It is flattery only if I exaggerate the truth to please you. I am but stating a simple fact.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes. “Tell me, does this work on other women?”

“I think any woman would like to hear the truth of how her beauty affects a man. Do you not?”

“I think that sort of manure is best reserved for farming.” Daylen coughed around a mouthful of bread, grinning at Morrigan.

“Ah, one day you will realize that you have wasted your youth and beauty on bitterness and suspicion, mark my words,” Zevran replied, sounding deeply offended.

“Remind me to bring you along if we go sailing. The hot air will prove useful.”

Zevran pressed the point. “Has anyone told you what marvelous eyes you possess, my dear?”

“Again with the flattery? Do you not tire from these pointless exercises?”

“In Antiva, women are accustomed to being showered with the praise they deserve. Men should worship you at your feet as you pass.”

“They don't find that incredibly annoying?” Morrigan asked.

Zevran shrugged. “They are goddesses receiving their subjects, just as you should be. Whatever would be annoying about that?

“I have no wish to be placed upon a pedestal.”

“But you deserve no less. You should be admired by painters, copied by sculptors, exalted by poets! Surely you know that yours is a beauty so exotic, it – it would turn the eye of the Maker Himself!”

Morrigan paused. “Well, I suppose I...”

“By the Maker!” Alistair said. “You were right! You win, I guess.”

“Thank you, ser,” Zevran replied. “I expect payment forthwith.” The warrior pouted, but dug out a silver and passed it over.

“You are a master indeed, Zevran,” Leliana added, passing over a handful of coins. “You win the bet fair and square.”

Zevran winked as he pocketed the money. “Much obliged, madame.”

Oghren groaned. “Fine. So I owe you a flagon. Bastard.”

“I hate you all,” Morrigan groaned. She looked at Daylen. “Did you not bet, as well?”

“I figured it was in poor taste,” the Warden replied, distracting Morrigan from Wynne handing Zevran a silver as well.

“So we’ve gotten the elves, the dwarves, and the mages to agree to help us,” Alistair said. “I suppose all that’s left is to depose Loghain.”

“Not quite,” Daylen replied. “We’re going to Soldier’s Peak before we go to Denerim.”

“Soldier’s Peak?” Alistair echoed. “That trader Dryden? Don’t we have bigger problems?”

“We don’t know how long this Blight is going to take,” Daylen pointed out. “We’ll need a fortress to stage from, work from, and if the worst should happen, to fall back to.”

Alistair paused. “That’s true. But do you really think that things could get that bad?”

“Alistair, have you ever commanded forces in a full-scale battle?” Daylen asked. “Because I haven’t. And I don’t think Arl Eamon has either. Neither of us has ever been trained for it. Things could easily get worse.”

Later that evening, Dagna found the Warden alone by the fire, the mage scratching his dog behind the ears as he studied a magical text. The dwarf opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it.

“What is it, Dagna?” Daylen asked without looking up. “Something on your mind?”

“Warden, I’m…” Dagna seemed to shrink in on herself. “I’m sorry about today. I should have seen that darkspawn coming.”

“You’re not a fighter, Dagna,” Daylen said softly. “Don’t feel bad about it. I’ve gotten pretty seasoned since I became a Warden, and I still get caught by surprise. You did pretty well, all considered. You hung back from the battle, and once you got free you kept yourself out of trouble until reinforcements arrived.”

“I suppose,” Dagna admitted.

“I’m hoping there won’t be a next time, but if you do find yourself having to go someplace there will be fighting, I suggest you wear armor. Perhaps a helmet.”

“Oh, please, I’m not brave enough to go into a battle,” Dagna scoffed.

“You willingly left your family, your caste, and everything you’ve ever known behind to pursue knowledge and your life’s passion, Dagna,” Daylen said softly, standing up. “That’s not something anyone does without a great deal of bravery.” As he left with Cupcake at his heels, he spoke over his shoulder. “Think about that one for a while.”

—ROTG—

_Shale  
"What can I say? I have a heart of stone."_

_The golems of Orzammar once made up the vanguard of the dwarven army, holding back the tides of darkspawn that flooded out of the Deep Roads. But the art of making them was lost, and many of them succumbed to wear and damage in battle._

_Shale has no memories either of the time spent fighting in the Deep Roads, or of coming to Honnleath, only a few spotty (and bitter) recollections of its last master._

_The Warden unearthed Shale's control rod and awakened it, adding a bitter, malfunctioning golem to the menagerie of companions._

_Hundreds of years earlier, she had been Shayle of House Cadash, warrior of King Valtor, and a volunteer who chose to dedicate her life for all time to the defense of Orzammar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated. If you're enjoying the story - spread the word! Message boards, tell your fandom friends, whatever. I'm trying to get more exposure for this fic.


	28. Soldier's Peak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group reaches Soldier's Peak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017. A happy Veteran's Day to you all, and I FREAKING FINISHED NANOWRIMO 2017 TODAY. HOLY SHIT.

_The History of the Drydens  
In the years following the siege of Soldier’s Peak, all those who carried the Dryden name were hunted by King Arland’s forces. Our noble Dryden name was smeared, and all lands and holdings belonging to the Drydens were seized by the crown. The king feared that the rebellion started by Sophia would be kept alive by her loyal friends and family, and anyone with connections to the Drydens suffered greatly. It is little wonder, then, that the few remaining Drydens found themselves with no allies and nowhere to turn._

_Toben Dryden, Sophia’s brother and guardian of her young son, had no choice but to flee Ferelden. Toben bought passage to Antiva on a merchant vessel and traveled under the name Derocher. Once in Antiva, Toben set about building a new, quiet life for himself and his nephew. He started a small business and eventually made a name for himself as a trader._

_The Derocher merchant family prospered, and the name Dryden was almost forgotten. However, in 8:15 Blessed, Silvie Derocher uncovered old documents belonging to Toben and pieced together the family’s history. In her pride, and perhaps in her naiveté, Silvie reclaimed the name Dryden and returned to Ferelden._

_King Arland lies dead, and the Dryden name lives on. Our family has survived--even thrived--since the death of Sophia Dryden. The nobles of Ferelden may still spit on the Dryden name, but we Drydens know that Sophia Dryden was greater than them, almost a queen, and a hero of the people of Ferelden._

_\--From the personal files of Levi Dryden, merchant._

—ROTG—

“So,” Oghren said as they set out the next day. “Antiva. Wonderful place. Full of…Antivans.”

“Oghren, if you want to bed me, you have only to ask,” Zevran replied bluntly.

The dwarf sputtered. “What? Draw your weapon and say that again!”

Zevran laughed. “I jest, my foul-smelling friend. You are only slightly less attractive to me than a slime-filled pool of swamp water.”

Oghren grunted. “Better be.”

“You have my oath.”

“Bloody Antivans,” Oghren grumbled.

It took several more days to reach Kinloch Hold, where the Warden’s party said their goodbyes to Dagna and borrowed a boat, leaving the wagon behind. As soon as they left the dock to cross the lake to Redcliffe, Daylen knocked himself out with a sleep spell rather than spend the trip throwing up.

When the boat reached Redcliffe, Alistair nudged the sleeping Warden awake as the boat bumped up against the dock. The mage stumbled ashore, followed by the others as they climbed the hill to the castle. They passed dozens of soldiers training alongside Dalish hunters practicing their archery. More soldiers were training in the marshalling yard of the castle, their captain giving the Wardens a respectful nod as they passed by.

Arl Eamon was in his study in the castle, a stack of reports on his desk. “Ah, Warden. I understand you’ve acquired all the allies you could?” Daylen nodded silently. “That’s good…we can call the Landsmeet, if you are ready. I would prefer not giving Loghain time to consider, but it is up to you. I do not wish to go to Denerim unless you are with me.”

“Are we ready?” Daylen asked. “Are the knights, the Dalish, truly ready? The dwarves are outfitted, and their new king has offered dwarven armoring services to the alliance.”

“We are still outfitting our recruits,” Eamon said. “Assistance from the dwarves would be a great help. The Dalish are ready. The mages have sent word that they are prepared, and are enchanting weapons and armor as quickly as can be managed. But none of that changes the fact that we simply can’t wait for everything to be ready, and we still need the bulk of the Fereldan army.”

Daylen nodded. “You’re right. The darkspawn aren’t going to wait for us to be ready for them. We have one bit of other business to take care of, but besides that, we’ve done all we can.” At Eamon’s questioning look, Daylen pulled out his map. “Have you ever heard of Soldier’s Peak?”

“I thought it was a myth,” Arl Eamon admitted.

“Yeah, so was the Urn of Sacred Ashes,” Daylen quipped. “That’s just my life, I guess. There’s a trader named Levi Dryden who wants our help in reclaiming it. According to him, it’s located here.” He tapped a finger on the map in the mountain range along the northern coastlands of Ferelden. “If we can retake the fortress, we’ll have a place to stage from, and if the worst should happen, a place to fall back to.”

“It would be a valuable asset,” Eamon said, examining the map. “What do you plan to do after reclaiming the fortress?”

“After that, we’ll head directly to Denerim,” Daylen said. “Can you give us a few days head start before you call the Landsmeet?”

“I shall make the arrangements,” Eamon declared. “We can give you four days, and then we will be off to Denerim. May the Maker watch over us.”

—ROTG—

“What do you think?” Daylen asked, holding his arms above his head. The Warden was stripped to the waist, standing in a pair of breeches by the fire.

Wynne frowned, prodding at his midsection. “The bones seem to have healed. Have you had any pain?”

“None in that area, not for a few days,” Daylen replied. “No numbness or loss of balance, either.”

“Well then,” Wynne pronounced. “You seem to have healed. Do try to not repeat this incident.”

“Don’t worry,” Daylen said, bundling up his clothes and tucking them under one arm. “If I ever fight an abomination of legend that’s turned into a dragon again, I won’t let it fling me against anything.”

Wynne rolled her eyes. “Before you go, Daylen?” The Warden looked back at her. “I have watched you and Morrigan for a time, and…perhaps I was wrong about her. There seems to be something special between the two of you. It doesn’t happen often, but I see her smile to herself, sometimes, when she watches you.”

Daylen grinned. “Does she? Aww, how sweet. I have to tease her now.”

Wynne sighed, but her smile betrayed her feelings. “I think I was too harsh in my judgment before, and I am sorry.”

“You wanted the best for both of us,” Daylen replied. “I accept your apology.”

“What you have may not last forever; death and duty may part you, but love’s worthiness is not diminished because of that. I should have seen this before. Instead, you learn to cherish every precious moment that you spend together, knowing that it may be the last. And for those of us watching…well, it brings warmth to these old bones to know that something so beautiful can be found in the midst of chaos and strife.”

“You really mean that?” Daylen asked.

“She has behaved admirably for someone educated outside the Circle and despite her…temperament, you have been a positive influence on her.”

Now it was Daylen’s turn to roll his eyes. “Wynne? Considering how few hedge mages go bad in comparison to Circle mages, maybe you shouldn’t be trying to claim the high ground over her on that. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Crossing the camp at a brisk pace, Daylen gave Zevran a nod as he approached, the elf glancing over from his conversation with Morrigan. “Morrigan?” The witch looked over, only to squawk indignantly as Daylen bent, his shoulder catching her in the midsection. The Warden stood, looping an arm around the back of her thighs, and Morrigan found herself hoisted over his shoulder, protesting as Daylen carried her towards her tent without breaking stride. “Plug your ears, everyone!” Daylen called over his shoulder. “ _I’m back_!”

“You know,” Alistair commented as the two disappeared into the tent. “On the one hand, I hate her. On the other hand, I’m...happy for him.”

“They are an odd couple, aren’t they?” Leliana said.

“Are they a couple?” Alistair asked. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the best at reading these things, but both of them seem set on not dealing with their feelings.”

“She _did_ give him a ring,” Leliana pointed out.

“And he _did_ give her one,” Alistair acknowledged.

“Neither one is seeing anyone else…” Leliana continued.

Alistair stared into the fire. “You think they might have just become a couple accidentally?”

There was a gleeful squeal that echoed across the camp as Daylen and Morrigan...reconnected.

So, naturally, that was the exact moment Alistair jerked upright, his eyes wide. He sat there for several moments, before turning around, his eyes narrowing as he sensed darkspawn approaching. Wynne’s head snapped up as several of the camp’s warning glyphs were tripped.

Daylen came stumbling out of the tent, groping for his staff - the metal one, that is. Unfortunately, it was on the far end of the camp, next to Wynne. It wasn’t a good situation. Daylen was naked as the day he was born, facing a pack of darkspawn bearing down on the camp. So, lacking better options, the Warden did what he could. He charged the darkspawn unarmed, buck naked, and screaming. Morrigan emerged from the tent a moment later in the form of a bear, roaring angrily and charging the darkspawn as well.

Daylen dodged the first two swings from a shriek’s blades, before punching the creature in the face, batting the darkspawn’s weapon away and incinerating the darkspawn with a bolt of lightning. The Warden snapped his fists out, a thick block of ice solidifying around his hands. Using the blocks as makeshift cudgels, Daylen crushed the darkspawn’s skull as the others set upon the rest of the darkspawn raiding party.

As the last one fell, Daylen looked down at his ice-encased hands. “May not have thought this one all the way through.”

Alistair kicked one of the dead darkspawn, stabbing it again when it groaned. “I guess it’s like Duncan once said. We can sense them, and they can sense us. We’d best be more careful from now on. I don’t think this camp is safe any longer.” He looked over at Daylen, ignoring the fact that the other man was naked. “Did you see the Archdemon, too? Before the darkspawn showed up?”

“Is that what I was seeing?” Daylen asked. “Yeah, I think so.”

“And I got the feeling at the end, there, that it saw us. Was aware of us. Whatever you want to call it. It could have just been my imagination, I suppose. What do you think?”

“I think that the Archdemon needs to die. Quickly.”

“Well, short of waltzing through the entire darkspawn horde and tapping it on the nose, I’m not sure just how we’re supposed to do that,” Alistair said dryly.

“We could try waltzing through the horde,” Daylen replied. “But I lead.”

“Then you buy,” Alistair quipped.

“Good. Wynne, you all right to set those glyphs down again?”

“Provided you put some pants on, yes,” Wynne replied. “You are a strapping young man, if a bit hairy, but…”

Daylen glanced down, squeaked in surprise, and bolted for the tent.

A few minutes later, the Warden was sitting half-in, half-out of the tent as Morrigan sat cross-legged in front of him, flames flickering from her upturned palms. The ice around Daylen’s hands was melting slowly, the mage’s hands still locked in the improvised knuckle-dusters. “Hang on, let’s try again,” Daylen said, banging the half-melted ice blocks together. The ice shattered, and Daylen cast a warming spell, the residual ice melting and his hands warming up again. “Oh, much better.” The mage pulled his pants on, flexing his stiff fingers. “All right, now that I’m decent, let’s get out of here, before more darkspawn show up.

—ROTG—

The group was setting up a new camp, several miles farther out from Redcliffe. Zevran was setting a ring of traps and snares with Leliana’s help around the camp as all three mages laid down warding glyphs. “I have a question for it, if it will indulge me,” Shale began as Daylen finished casting. “It chose to side with Caridin and destroy the Anvil of the Void. I agree with its decision, and yet the Paragon Branka was the reason it ventured into the Deep Roads. Why did it choose to defy her? It could not have known for certain that Caridin would be able to assist it with the dwarves.”

“You believed in Caridin,” Daylen replied. “I wasn’t going to let you down.”

Shale was taken aback. “I…I am pleased, then. I had no idea that was why it did that.”

“Well, Branka was clearly insane, so I wasn’t going to side with her,” Daylen continued. “But your faith in Caridin decided it for me. Yes, I didn’t know whether Caridin could help with the dwarves, but sometimes you have to take a chance and hope for the best.”

“At any rate, I wanted to thank it. It gave Caridin the end he wanted, and I am pleased to have been a part of it. Caridin’s words to me have been…a great deal to absorb.”

“I admit, finding out that golems were made from living beings was a lot to take in,” Daylen said. “But I imagine it was a great deal more unsettling to hear it _as a golem_.”

“It was,” Shale admitted. “And it has occurred to me that I have been…” the golem sighed. “Excuse me, this is not easy.”

“Take your time,” Daylen encouraged.

“It occurs to me that I have been less than _charitable_ with it since it reanimated me.”

“Shale, you were treated poorly by a human mage for years who experimented on you. Then you spent thirty years getting crapped on by pigeons. I think you’ve got good reason to be a little grumpy.”

“I have come to realize that it has been good to me…” Shale paused, before amending, “ _you_ have been good to me…even though you had no control rod to enforce obedience. I have…never had one before, so I don’t know how to…thank you. For being…you know.”

“A friend?” Daylen guessed. “A comrade-in-arms? A soft, squishy, fleshy thing?”

“All of that,” Shale said with an emphatic nod. “I followed you expecting to find answers to my questions, but I think I have found something much better.”

“I am honored, Shale,” Daylen replied warmly. “It’s good to have you along.”

“Now, let us not speak of this awkward bonding moment ever again,” Shale declared.

Daylen grunted. “So…you’re female? I can see that, actually.”

“I did not think it needed to be said,” Shale replied. “It has never told me what gender it is has it?”

“For what it matters, I am male,” Daylen said.

Shale rolled her eyes. “Good for it. I am sure that to other creatures as soft and weak as itself, that would be perfectly obvious. The truth is whatever gender I was is irrelevant now. I am a golem. I have no gender. It will not become an issue?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Daylen said. “Many of our companions are female, after all. It’s just you’re cuter than before. Weird.”

Shale stared at him for a long, long moment. “Right. I catch it staring at my behind and I…will feel very awkward. Now, let us crush something soft and watch it fountain blood. That is a girlish thing to want to do, yes?” Daylen barked out a laugh.

Most of the group was making their way to bed, but Alistair lingered by the fire, catching Daylen’s attention as the Warden passed by. “I’m wondering something. I’d like to know your thoughts about some of our…traveling companions. Do you mind if I ask?”

“Time for the juicy gossip, I take it?” Daylen asked.

“I’ve got this nefarious plan to go around to each of them and secretly tell them all the nasty things you said. That way they’ll mutiny and I shall become the group leader!” The warrior let out a respectable evil laugh.

“Well, I’ve already dealt with one mutiny,” Daylen replied. “But if you want to lead, all you have to do is ask.”

Alistair feigned shock. “What? Lead? Me? No, no, no. No leading. Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I’m stranded somewhere without any pants.”

“You did all right in the Deep Roads, from what I hear,” Daylen pointed out.

“Seriously, though, I’m only curious,” Alistair pressed. “I’ve had enough time to form my own opinions and I just want to see if yours are any different.”

“Go for it,” Daylen prompted.

“How about our newest member? Oghren? You must have an opinion on the smell at the very least.”

“He seems a decent enough fellow,” Daylen replied. “When you think about it, how he is makes a lot of sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he was a respected warrior in Orzammar, but when Branka became a Paragon,  he got shunted out of the spotlight. When she started her own house, his house voted unanimously to join hers. Her taking the entire house _except him_ just put him deeper in his cups, and then he got barred from even carrying weapons in Orzammar. He’d have nothing to do _but_ drink. Considering how much of an asset he’s been, I actually rather like him.”

“I would too, if he could stick to the ribald stories and no so much with the belching and projectile vomiting. How he lifts his sword is a bit of a mystery. Though I suppose the point is that he does lift it. And so long as we can point him in the right direction, he charges too. He has gusto, I’ll give him that.”

“Who else do you want to talk about?”

“Zevran,” Alistair said immediately. “The elf. You can’t…trust him, can you? Do you believe his so-called vow?”

“Yes, actually I do,” Daylen replied.

“Really? Why? That’s a lot of trust to put in someone who tried to kill you.”

“If he wanted us dead, he could have killed us a thousand times by now,” Daylen said. “He was about ready to fistfight Ignacio when we met, and in light of how he’s helped us out, I’m willing to give him a chance.”

Alistair considered the point. “That’s true. Well, if you are, then maybe I should, too. But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep an eye on him. He’s just too shifty. What about Sten? The way he looks at me, with those eyes…it’s just creepy. And he’s so quiet for someone so big.”

The mage perked up. “I have a theory on that. I don’t think he speaks our language very well. It may be why he’s so quiet. And he’s dedicated, I’ll give him that.”

“Yet he doesn’t seem quite as bad as the Chantry tells us. According to them, his philosophy is vile and evil, yet he seems so reasonable. And yet he killed all those people. He doesn’t even deny it. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“We’re all killers, Alistair,” Daylen said bluntly. “And yes, he seems reasonable, but the Qunari as a people? They scare me more than the Templars. Templars would just lock me up. The Qunari do things to their mages that most Templars would find extreme.”

“What about Leliana?” Alistair asked. “Is she crazy? Or do you really believe in her vision?”

“I believe that she believes in it,” Daylen replied. “And whether her vision was really from the Maker, I don’t think we could ever know. I’m certainly not going to discount the possibility that it was, but I certainly can’t prove it.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Alistair muttered. “I don’t know what to make of her. If you look at her when she doesn’t see you, she just looks so…sad. I almost feel guilty taking her away from her life.”

“Well, it was her choice,” Daylen said. “And if she hadn’t joined us, she’d probably still have been in Lothering when the darkspawn got there. Dark thought, that.”

“Yes, I know. Still, I feel badly for her.” Alistair seemed uncomfortable, but pressed on. “And Morrigan. Do you trust her? Think about it…maybe Flemeth sent her with us for some other reason than she said.”

Daylen sighed. “I trust her, but knowing that she and I have…whatever it is that we have, it would be strange if I didn’t. What reason could she have to betray us?”

“Hello? Have you met her?” Alistair asked. “I think she’d need a reason _not_ to betray us. Don’t tell me you actually get along with her. Tell me she’s just…useful. And you’re watching her carefully.”

Daylen grunted. “She wouldn’t gain anything from betraying us. Besides, she may not admit it, but she does care. And I _do_ get along with her. She’s useful, yes, but I wouldn’t have her with us if I didn’t trust her.” The mage paused. “And I think she’s beautiful. Don’t you?”

“Sure,” Alistair rolled his eyes. “Beautiful just like…like something that’s also dangerous. Like a…beautiful, dangerous thing.”

“Like a dragon?” Daylen sighed. “Or a storm?”

“Yes, one of those. But more evil.”

“You think what you will,” Daylen replied. “But I trust her. And I trust Wynne, and I trust Shale, and I trust Cupcake, and I trust you. Although I’m not so sure about Cupcake.” The dog paused midway through scratching his ear and whimpered. “I keep finding half-chewed sticks in my pack.”

—ROTG—

“Good to know I haven’t lost my touch,” Daylen said, panting slightly.

“I should say not,” Morrigan purred, nuzzling his neck. The witch stiffened slightly a moment later, before turning over, her eyes dark. “I wish to ask a question of you.”

“Go ahead,” Daylen murmured sleepily, wrapping an arm possessively around her midsection.

“I wish to know your opinion of ‘love,’ if you can.”

Daylen’s eyes widened slightly. “My opinion?”

“You and I have been intimate, for one,” Morrigan explained.

“To say the least,” Daylen replied, squeezing her hip.

Morrigan was undeterred. “We have been...close...for some time now. You are...impressive, in many ways, and you even protected me from Flemeth without hope of reward.”

“You’ve helped a lot yourself,” Daylen pointed out. “And I _did_ promise to protect you.”

The hedge mage sat up, moving away from Daylen slightly. “I feel anxious when I look upon you. I dislike this sense of dependency. ‘Tis a weakness I abhor. If this is ‘love,’ then I wish to ascertain that you do not feel the same.”

Daylen sat up as well, thoughts of sleep leaving his mind. “Are you saying that you love me?”

“No, that’s…not what I’m saying. You need to pay attention.” Morrigan tugged her top back on, wrapping a blanket around herself. “What I am saying is I have been foolish. I have allowed myself to become...too close. This is a weakness.”

“Love is _not_ a weakness,” Daylen insisted, smiling faintly. “How could it be?”

“ _You are not listening to me_ ,” Morrigan said, clearly frustrated. “Do not be such a fool! This is for your own good. I would not...I am not like other women.”

“I’ll say,” Daylen muttered.

Morrigan glared at him. “I am not worth your distraction. And you...are not worth mine.”

The mage flinched at her words, an icy feeling setting into his gut. “You are worth my distraction,” Daylen said firmly.

“I...you are impossible!” The witch threw up her hands. “Have it your way. But I will tell you truly now - you will regret it in the end.”

“Maybe so,” Daylen replied. “But I would rather regret doing something than never knowing what would have happened.” He paused. “And if I do love you?”

Morrigan donned the rest of her robes, grabbed her boots, and left the tent without another word.

—ROTG—

It took most of the four day’s head start Arl Eamon had promised them to reach the point on the map Levi Dryden had marked out. Unfortunately, when they arrived, they found several Templars harassing the merchant.

Daylen heard the argument before he saw it, and his grip tightened around his staff as he heard Dryden’s raised voice.

“You have no right to harass me like this!” The trader was shouting.

“Alistair, with me,” Daylen ordered quietly. “The rest of you, hang back a touch, but keep alert.”

Levi was camped outside a cave mouth, a cookfire crackling in a pit and a bedroll already laid out. Daylen spotted a second set of equipment half-concealed in a wagon, and five Templars were arrayed around the camp, watching the trader.

“We know that he is here,” a bald Templar was insisting. “I will ask again! Where is the maleficar you are harboring!”

“ _There is no such person here_ ,” Dryden spat. “I’ve told you that several times now!”

“Levi,” Daylen called warmly. “These men bothering you?”

“Hold, stranger!” The lead Templar called. “Do not interfere!”

“You’re already interfering,” Daylen snapped. “This man is an associate of mine.”

“I think this one may be a mage, ser,” a second Templar said, pointing at Daylen. “I can just smell it.”

“I’m a Grey Warden, you gormless cockwomble,” Daylen growled.

“We’ve heard that one before,” the lead Templar snapped. “You are a mage, are you not?”

“What’s your point?”

“Mages must be accompanied by a Templar while outside the Circle,” a third Templar parroted, “or they are apostates.”

“Well, that’s fortunate,” Daylen said brightly. “Because my friend here happens to be a Templar.”

“Then why does he not wear our armor?” Baldy asked.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but his armor is superior to Templar issue,” Daylen replied.

“Besides, have you seen the tailoring on that stuff?” Alistair asked. “It’s awful. Doesn’t flatter at all.”

Baldy took a step forward, snarling. “Your attitude needs an adjustment, young man.”

Daylen ignored him. “Levi, these cock-ups hurt you at all?”

“No, just harassing me,” Levi replied. “So far.”

“Well, it’s only five against one, that seems fair for the big bad Templars,” Daylen scoffed.

“I will not be ignored,” Baldy snapped.

Daylen let out a frustrated growl. “Get _fucked_ , Baldy! I’m talking here! Toddle off back to the woods and wave your swords at some squirrels or something! Accuse a goat of blood magic! Do whatever it is you Templars do when you’re not abusing mages!”

“That’s it!” The Templar threw his hands up to bring down a Holy Smite, and Daylen’s eyes bugged out as the technique came down, driving him to one knee as his magic fled. “Grey Warden or not, I will not stand for this insolence!”

Daylen dragged off his helmet, gasping for air. “Oh that’s not good.”

“It’s _him_ ,” one of the other Templars said. “That’s the mage that helped Jowan escape!”

“We’ve been hunting you,” Baldy declared with a smirk. “The Revered Mother in Denerim wanted to dispatch a team to eliminate you after you aided the maleficar, but after your treason at Ostagar, she sent some of our brothers to dispose of you.” He sneered at Alistair. “I suppose you must have caught them by surprise with demonic aid.”

Daylen collapsed, shaking violently. “Back off,” Alistair snarled. “The Wardens were framed.”

“I don’t care,” Baldy snorted. “He must die.”

“Alistair,” Daylen coughed from his position on the floor. “Here.” He managed to hold up his staff for the warrior to take.

The lead Templar scoffed. “What could that accomplish? You are no mage.”

Alistair turned the staff over in his hands a few times, adjusting to the weight. “I may not be a mage, that’s true. But I’ll tell you something you all missed.”

“Oh?” Alistair nodded, leaning forward conspiratorially. The lead Templar mirrored him. “And what’s that?”

Alistair smiled sweetly. “I may not be able to cast spells with this, but it’s still a mighty big stick.” The Templar’s jaw made a satisfying crunch as Alistair fractured it with a blow from the silverite-banded end of the staff, the warrior shoving the injured Templar back into his comrades and sweeping the staff around, shattering another’s kneecap.

And then everything happened at once. A boulder came careening through the trees, crushing two of the Templars under its mass as it bounced by. Several lightning bolts shot from multiple points in the trees and killed two more of the Templars, and arrows finished off the leader as Alistair dragged Daylen clear of the fight.

“Fucking took you long enough,” Daylen mumbled as the others emerged.

“Look what you did,” Levi gasped, surveying the carnage. “ _Look_ _what you did_!” [1]

“They would have killed you after,” Daylen said, managing to sit up. “You’d seen too much. What happened?”

“They showed up suddenly,” Levi explained. “They claimed they were searching for a blood mage named Jowan, insisted that he had been seen in this area. When I told him I hadn’t met anyone by that name, he claimed I was lying, said he knew Jowan was here.”

Daylen grunted, downing a lyrium potion and coughing. “Bastards. He was right, though.”

“What do you mean?” Levi asked. “The only other one here is Levyn, and he said not to…say…he was here.” Levi sighed. “He’s Jowan.”

“Got it in one,” Daylen confirmed. “Jowan’s a Grey Warden recruit, but he was a blood mage and he did escape from the Circle. I’m pretty sure he was one of the ones casting lightning bolts.” Clearing his throat, he called out. “Jowan? It’s safe!”

A wiry form dropped from one of the trees, brushing twigs and leaves off himself. “I’m sorry I caused trouble,” he said in greeting.

“Even if you hadn’t been here, they would have tried to kill me,” Daylen replied, managing to stand up. “Good to see you, mate.” He nodded to Morrigan. “Burn the bodies. Bury the armor.” Looking back to Levi, he pulled his robes tighter around his body, shivering. “All right. We’re all here. Where’s the fortress?”

“On the other side of this mountain,” Levi said, pointing at the mountain behind him. “This cave leads to old mining tunnels that let out near the fortress. It’s a few hours trip in the tunnels, but if you didn’t know the way you’d never find it. I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

“No time like the present,” Daylen declared. “Let’s go.”

—ROTG—

Their breath was fogging in the air as they emerged from the tunnels, snow piled deep on the ground. “And here we are,” Levi declared. “Soldier’s Peak.” Daylen looked up and spotted the mighty structure rising into the morning sky. “Maker’s breath, look at the size of her. What a fortress.” He gave Daylen a grin. “I told you the map would get us through the tunnels.”

“She’s impressive, that’s for certain. But how did you find that path on your own?” Daylen asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Levi replied.

“Just admit it, you were lost a couple times,” Daylen teased.

“I wasn’t lost,” Levi insisted. “It’s just that the map got soggy. But we’re here. So, I’ll follow you about. From a distance. This place has the stench of death, and I expect there’s trouble ahead.”

“Soldier’s Peak,” Alistair whispered, looking at the fortress. “Looks like its seen better days. Better centuries, more like.”

“Built sometime back in the Glory Age, if I remember correctly,” Jowan chimed in.

“That’s right,” Daylen said. “It was right after the Second Blight, so the northern teyrns opened their coffers plenty wide for the Wardens.”

Wynne was still staring disapprovingly at Jowan, who was shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Look, whatever you’re going to say, just say it,” the young mage said eventually.

“You were taught better,” Wynne finally ground out.

Jowan blinked at her. “No, no I wasn’t. In fact, had Daylen not gone out of his way to help me with my studies, I probably never would have gotten as far as I did.”

“This is a serious matter, young man. You aren’t even Harrowed!”

“And I’m no longer subject to the deranged whims of the Circle or the Templars,” Jowan shot back. “If Daylen wants, I’ll go through the Harrowing after the Blight is over. It’s not like we don’t know that I can survive it.” Wynne opened her mouth, and Jowan cut her off. “And before you say something like ‘the Circle will never take you back now,’ _I don’t want to go back_. I have...I have a purpose now. A _future_. I won’t waste time pretending I would ever go back to the Circle when I can have the Wardens.” He paused. “And you should have seen what I did to an ogre a while back. I blew it up! I have to admit, I enjoyed that.”

“You should,” Daylen called back to them as they ascended a set of wide steps leading to a portcullis. “We’ve seen some shit out in the Deep Roads. Suffice to say that the darkspawn deserve _anything and everything_ unpleasant that you can conceive of to do to them.”

“All right,” Levi said as they reached the portcullis. “Any ideas on how to get past this thing?”

“Shale?” Daylen called politely. “Could I trouble you to lift this?”

The golem sighed, but gently lifted the portcullis up, leaving the gate intact as everyone ducked underneath. “Mighty handy, that golem,” Levi remarked. “Never have to lift anything heavy again. Bet it’s pretty handy in battle, too.”

“Shale’s one of a kind,” Daylen said as Shale casually ripped a tree trunk out of the ground and used it to brace the portcullis open. “A good companion. And yes, watching those fists crush things is rather entertaining.”

 As the group walked into the marshaling yard of the fortress, there was a flash of light, and the world took on an unnatural hue. There were suddenly soldiers before them, one of them running directly through Alistair and speaking to a noble in silverite armor. “Fall back!” The noble ordered. “Fall back already!”

They watched as the soldier spoke to the noble. “Taking the Peak will not be easy, milord.”

“I gave the Wardens one chance to die with honor,” the noble spat. “Instead, they hole up like cowards. We follow the king’s advice, then. Starve them out.”

“But the Peak has months of supplies,” the soldier objected.

“Then we wait!” The noble snapped. “When they are too weak to lift their weapons, we will send them to their final judgment.”

As suddenly as the vision had appeared, it vanished, leaving them alone in the compound. “What was that?” Levi asked, wide-eyed. “I’m not mad, am I? You saw it too?”

“I’ve heard an Orlesian ballad about something like this,” Leliana commented. “A beauty trapped in a dream. In the song, Bellissa never wakes up.”

“Your pretty friend here is making me nervous, Warden,” Levi said. “How is this even possible? The place must truly be haunted.”

“I’ve heard of things like this before,” Daylen replied. “Places where there were battles, the Veil gets thin, and sometimes you can see visions of the past. We’re rather close to the Fade.” He closed his eyes, feeling the ambient flows of magic. “Someone tore the Veil here. The Circle Tower was that way, too.”

“The Veil?” Levi asked.

“It’s what separates people like you and me from the Fade and spirits and demons,” Daylen explained.

“Demons?” Levi repeated. “Thank Andraste you came, Warden. It might be dangerous.” He paused. “You go first.”[2]

They didn’t make it ten paces before trouble arose – literally. Walking dead popped out of the snow, drawing weapons and slogging through the drifts towards the group. Freezing them in place and hacking them apart was a relatively simple matter, and once the creatures were put to rest, Daylen paused to examine one. “I’ve got some noble heraldry over here,” he called.

“Warden tunics on these,” Alistair reported from another group. “Looks like the demons weren’t picky about whose corpses they possessed.” Daylen rooted around in the snow, picking up an ancient crossbow that appeared to have weathered the ages quite well. Shrugging and strapping it to his back, the Warden accepted a satchel of enchanted bolts from Sten, the warrior nodding silently as Daylen belted them on.

The group slowly explored the marshalling yard, finding empty stalls for livestock, horses, and what may have once been a griffon eyrie. The ropes and weights for the portcullis had long since rotted beyond use, and most everything of use was gone.

The steps leading up to the keep were remarkably intact, if covered in snow, and some carefully controlled gouts of flame from the mages cleared a path through the piled drifts. The keep’s door had clearly been battered in, and Daylen signaled his companions to wait as he and Cupcake peered inside, before gesturing to Zevran and Leliana. The two rogues led the way in, checking the dusty floor for traps as they went. The windows were caked in centuries of grime, but some light filtered through them still, illuminating a high-ceilinged hall.

Another vision came over there as they crossed the room, and Daylen pulled to a halt as he recognized Warden heraldry on the ghosts.

A mage was speaking of a morale problem to a woman in plate armor he addressed as “Commander.”

“Sophia Dryden,” Daylen breathed, watching the specter of the woman move about the room. The Warden-Commander’s voice echoed around the room as she addressed her troops.

"Men, I won't lie to you. The situation is grim: our forces outnumbered, our bellies empty, and our hearts are sagging. But we are Wardens! Darkspawn flee when they hear our horns. Archdemons  _die_  when they taste our blades. So are we to bend knee to a mere human despot? No! I, for one, will never give up! I, for one will never surrender, just to dance on Arland's gallows! So I propose here and now, in these hallowed halls were generations of our brethren stood vigil against darkspawn and evil, that we send a message to that fat bastard. In this sacred place, proud men, strong men, stood defiant, and would rather die that submit to tyranny!"

The vision ended before they could see the results of her speech, and Levi spoke up. “So brave, even when starving. And my great-great-grandmother stood with them.”

“Odd that the Wardens would get caught up in something like this, even if King Arland was a tyrant,” Daylen remarked. “Hard to tell, either way. The war that followed his death ripped Ferelden apart and nearly burned Denerim to the ground. Most of the history about the period was lost. Wardens are supposed to remain neutral, so what happened?”

“With these visions of the past, perhaps we’ll find out,” Wynne suggested. “There may be answers further inside.”

In the next room, they found demons rather than answers. An arcane horror and a pair of rage demons met a sticky end as Daylen’s Mana Clash caught all three of them, and as the demons collapsed, the group surveyed the room. Skeletons were splayed around the room, some wearing Arland’s colors, others Warden uniforms, and the wreckage of what looked to be improvised fortifications blocked one of the doors ahead. A side room that appeared to be a barracks held more walking dead in Warden colors that were quickly taken to pieces, and bypassing the blocked doorway revealed a note written to Sophia by an ancestor of Arl Wulff.

“Well, that’s morbid,” Daylen reported after studying the note under the light. “Apparently Arland killed one of his arls and the man’s entire family – even the children – for speaking out of turn.”

“Charming fellow,” Zevran said.

The mess hall, as it appeared to have been, held little of interest, as the Wardens had been starving at the end of the siege. The next room appeared to be a Warden archive, but it had clearly been set on fire during the siege, and most of the texts were beyond repair. Another trio of rage demons were inside, but died another quick death at the hands of the Dalish mage-killer spell that Daylen had picked up.

As the group secured and scouted the room, Daylen knelt, finding a badly burnt book amongst the ashes and trying to smooth some of the grime away.

Another vision beset the group, as a mage attempted to ward the door they had just entered through and Arland’s men banged against it from the other side. “The door won’t hold, archivist!” The mage warned as a man wrote quickly in an unburnt version of the book Daylen was now holding.

“Almost done,” the archivist replied. “The truth must be told.”

“What does it matter?” the mage asked incredulously. “We’re dead.”

“Our grand rebellion,” the archivist sighed. “So close. And to die here a stillbirth.”

“We never should have done it,” the mage whimpered. “Wardens aren’t supposed to oppose kings and princes.”

The archivist glared at her, ignoring the hammering at the door. “Should we stand idly by while-” The vision abruptly ended as the door crumbled in.

“Rebellion?” Levi echoed. “What’s this about a rebellion?” He looked at the burnt tome in Daylen’s hands, the words illegible from time and damage. “If only the book weren’t burned.”

“Maybe there are other records,” Daylen sighed, dropping the book. “But rebellion is against everything the Wardens stand for.”

“But Sophia must have had her reasons,” Levi replied. “The Wardens are heroes. Some injustices just can’t be ignored.”

“Considering I’m essentially staging a counter-coup to a usurper’s takeover, I have to agree,” Daylen muttered. “Perhaps we’ll find more answers upstairs.”

The next level of the keep appeared to be a dining area for the officers, and Daylen stopped short, his eyes narrowing. “Be on your guard,” He warned. “This is where the Veil was sundered. Badly.”

“What should I do?” Levi whispered.

“If you hear a voice offering you something you desperately want, no matter who it sounds like, _say no_. Tell them to fuck off back to the Fade. We’ll protect you as best we can, but don’t agree to any deals.”

“I understand,” Levi replied.

Another vision awaited them further inside the chamber, revealing how things had gone from bad to worse for the Warden defenders.

“Make them pay for every inch, men!” The specter of Sophia Dryden ordered. Her Wardens charged, but Arland’s men were flooding into the room, and the tide began to turn against the defenders as Sophia urged them to hold the flank. As more of her men fell, Sophia turned, hollering to the mage they had seen at the entrance hall. “Avernus! We need you!”

The mage chanted, and Jowan paled. “Oh, no.” A Rage demon erupted into the world, and the attackers balked at the sight, moments before the demon began ripping into their ranks.

“More, Avernus,” Sophia urged. “Whatever it takes!”

Avernus summoned a shade, and another mage called another Rage demon into the world. The demon turned and casually struck the mage who had summoned it, knocking her across the room hard enough to leave a bloody smear on the wall as she impacted. The shade ripped a Warden’s spine out as the man passed by, and Avernus shouted. “No! I command you, fight the king’s men!”

“Fool,” the shade rumbled, moving into the summoner’s personal space. “So much death, suffering, and oh, yes, _blood_. The Veil is torn, now. _Your soul is mine, Avernus_.”

The mage began backpedaling, heading for another set of stairs. “Acolytes, retreat now. The battle is lost.”

Sophia dropped an Arland soldier and turned at Avernus’s call, screaming his name after him as the vision ended.

“What was-” Levi began, but Daylen shoved him out of the way as more demons arose from the dust and filth, along with several undead Wardens. Cupcake seized the trader’s sleeve in his teeth, dragging Levi away from the fighting and standing watch over him as the others ripped the demons and undead apart.

As the last one fell, Daylen kicked a possessed corpse in the head, making sure it was really dead and exercising some frustration.

“The Wardens summoned demons,” Levi said. “I can’t believe it. And my grandmother…she knew.”

“The Wardens don’t forbid blood magic,” Daylen replied. “Anything it takes to win. But that’s to _fight the Blight_!”

“I believed my family was better than that,” Levi mumbled. “But answers may lie up ahead.”

Daylen knelt, picking up a staff that was radiating frost from its tip. “Oh, very nice.” There was a chapel ahead with more undead, and Daylen spotted a glowing barrier over a doorway. “There’s some sort of magic at work here,” he said. “We’ll come back to it. I want to check out that room before we move on.”

There were a few skeletons on the floor, a fire burning in the ancient hearth, and the same dusty and decaying furniture as the rest of the keep, and facing away from them, a woman in heavy plate armor, bearing a Warden-issue longsword and a tower shield with Warden heraldry across her back.

“Step no further,” she boomed as they approached. Cupcake growled, and the woman turned, and Daylen flinched, seeing the corpse of Sophia Dryden with a voice far too deep to be human coming out of it. “Get this annoyance away from me,” she snapped, glaring at Cupcake. “This one would speak with you.”

“Who, or _what_ are you?” Daylen asked.

“This one is the Dryden. Commander. Sophia. All these things. You have slain many of the demon ilk to get here. This one would propose a deal.”

“Levi, I’m afraid your great-great-grandmother has been possessed,” Daylen said.

“That, or she’s _really_ let herself go,” Levi mumbled, staring at the possessed Warden. “My great-great-grandmother is dead. I don’t know what that is.”

“Is there anything of the real Sophia left inside you?” Daylen asked cautiously.

“This one has tasted her memories, seen her thoughts and hidden places. But she is food for this one, no more, no less.”

Daylen grunted. “So you might have answers for Levi here.”

“This one knows all, but will not talk for nothing,” Sophia warned. “This Soldier’s Peak traps me. This one sees so many tantalizing places in the Dryden’s memories – this one would see the world herself. For me to be free, into the old mage tower you go and destroy. In return, this one seals the Veil. No more demons, no more enemies. Your Peak would be safe. Just let this one go into the world.”

Daylen remained noncommittal. “Before I make a deal, you tell Levi anything he wants to know about Sophia.”

“Warden, my family has been looking for answers for over a century,” Levi interjected. “But _not like this_.”

“All right, fair enough,” Daylen replied. “Allow me to make a counter-offer. You first seal the Veil, then I’ll do my part. You have my word.”

The two stared each other down for a moment, demon against mage. “Gah!” The demon finally yielded. “Your offer is accepted. Come, follow this one.”

Sophia led the way to the site where Avernus had torn the Veil, closing her eyes and inhaling. “Gossamer strands only stand between this world and home. Feel it? So deliciously weak here. So frail. The entire world should be such. But this one will feed the Veil. Make it strong.” She turned to Daylen. “My brethren will not make it easy. Are you ready?”

“Seal the Veil, I’ll make sure they don’t harm you,” Daylen replied.

“Then we begin,” the demon pronounced, raising her arms.

A handful of Rage demons erupted through the Veil as Sophia began, and the mages casually annihilated them with bursts of ice. Shades arrived a moment later, and the warriors and rogues set to work, hacking into the creatures as the mages backed together, lobbing spells left and right. As the shades fell, another pair of rage demons emerged alongside a single desire demon, only to be ripped apart by spells and steel. The shape of a Pride demon began to coalesce, but a few moments later the demon vanished, and Sophia dropped her arms.

“And it is done,” Sophia said. “Your Veil is strong. Now you go, and do this one’s bidding.”

“Very well. Leliana, Alistair, Zevran, with me,” Daylen said. “Everyone else, stay here.” He glanced at the other mages, then at Sophia. Morrigan smirked, and Wynne nodded in understanding.

The group approached the blocked door, and Daylen felt the strands of magic threading across the doorway. “Alistair, can you cleanse this?”

“You might want to back up a touch,” the warrior warned. The warrior focused, wiping the magic away from the door, and the barrier dissipated, fizzling away as Alistair negated the magic.

The door opened inwards, a blast of icy wind bursting through the entryway as a flurry of snow blew in. The Wardens stepped out onto a bridge, running high along the top of the keep and leading to a free-standing tower.

Unfortunately, between the tower and the living were another half-dozen undead. Alistair charged forward, knocking one undead off the bridge and engaging another before a trap clamped shut around his leg. The warrior flinched, but knocked another walking corpse back, dropping to one knee in the piled snow. “Little help!”

Leliana’s aim was affected by the gusting wind on the bridge, but Daylen’s magic flew true, a conjured lump of stone barreling down the narrow bridge and knocking another animated corpse off the bridge, scattering the others. Zevran waded forward, levering open the trap and freeing Alistair as the undead made another push. Daylen lobbed a fireball over their heads, knocking the remaining undead off the bridge and setting off several other traps concealed in the snowdrift.

Another handful of animated Warden corpses were inside the tower’s entry room, and once dispatched Daylen had the chance to survey the room. “This place is…clean. Warm. Someone’s living here.”

“With all these demons and walking dead?” Alistair asked. “How?”

“No idea,” Daylen said, picking up a sheaf of documents. “Oh, this is interesting…got some notes written by Avernus.”

Alistair peered over his shoulder at the close-written, neat script. “What do they say?”

“The Taint allows us to sense the darkspawn,” Daylen read aloud. “The longer we survive with the Taint in our blood, the more potent it becomes. Unfortunately, this corruption will eventually overwhelm the Warden; over time, it devours both mind and body, leaving nothing. But what if the spread of the corruption could be stopped, or contained in some way? What if the Warden could become more powerful, without having that power kill him? How great would that power be? Would it be enough to stop the demons?”

“You think he was searching for some way to use the Taint in his blood against the demons he summoned?” Alistair asked.

“Seems to be what he started looking for,” Daylen said. “But I read on. ‘The Joining ritual is crude. We take into ourselves the blood of the darkspawn in the most obvious way. Most die from the corruption immediately; it is, after all, poison. There must be some way to refine the Joining. Isolate the true power that is found in darkspawn blood, and leave behind the evil that kills us.’ _He was looking for a cure to the Calling_.”

“It would eliminate the fatality rate of the Joining, as well,” Alistair realized. “Did he succeed before he died?”

“I can feel the corruption starting to take its toll on my body,” Daylen continued. “I must not succumb. There is too much work to be done. Through my magic I've been able to slow its inevitable spread, but not stop it completely. I am starting to hear things, even while awake: A voice--more beautiful than any other--that calls to me from the depths. In my dreams, I see the Black City, and I am drawn towards it. There is something there, an answer to what this Taint is, this Taint that we share with the darkspawn...” Daylen glanced through the rest of the notes. “Don’t see a continuation.”

“There is more down here,” Leliana pronounced, looking up from a hefty tome on the floor next to a pile of old books. She hefted the book, setting it on the table and nearly knocking over a dusty bottle.

“Day thirty-two,” Daylen read aloud. “The subject is not responding to the stimuli. Testing the pain threshold has uncovered nothing. Only three subjects are left.”

“Subjects?” Alistair echoed. “Oh, that doesn’t sound good.”

“Day eighty-two,” Daylen continued. “If only I could reproduce last night’s extraordinary success. Electricity is only a catalyst. The blood is the key.”  Daylen skimmed ahead, reading through the experimental notes. “Day ninety-seven. Energy and blood. Repeated applications have duplicated the results. I conjecture that success can be induced alchemically. But there are no more subjects left. If only I had one more, or a dozen. The things I could do.”

“What subjects could he be talking about?” Leliana asked.

“Not sure, but I’m guessing he wasn’t working with chickens,” Daylen replied darkly. “Maybe he left more notes inside.”

The next chamber was large, its ceiling built high and clearly designed for magical experimentation. A window at the opposite end of the hall was broken, icy air flowing into the room and snow gathering below it.

And standing at a desk was a human. The man turned as they approached, revealing a face deeply wizened by age. He was bald and wrinkled, but his eyes shone bright and his posture was straight. “Ah, I was expecting someone. Or something. Please, come in. It has been so long since I could _focus_ , you see. But the rip in the Veil has been mended.”

Daylen stopped short and nearly took a step back as he felt the power radiating from the man. It felt like walking into a brick wall. He kept his face neutral, but fought back an involuntary shudder. Rather than wetting himself in terror, Daylen settled for clearing his throat. “You must be Avernus,” he said. “How do I know you’re not possessed?”

The mage chuckled. “You’ve met dear old Sophia, have you? My body is sustained from a similar source, but my mind and my volition are intact.”

“Careful,” Leliana warned. “This man has dabbled in matters forbidden by the Maker. He may look frail, but don’t trust him.”

“So the Maker told you that, did he?” Avernus asked skeptically. “Short-sighted men have forbidden my research, not any god. Enough.” He looked to Daylen. “Why are you here? What is your intent?”

“I came here to recover the Grey Warden’s base,” Daylen explained.

“I see nothing that could stop you now,” Avernus remarked. “Certainly not myself.”

Daylen grunted. “I want some answers.”

“To what questions, I wonder? Ask.”

“How have you survived this many years?”

“The Chantry foolishly forbids blood magic, but there are so many secrets to uncover,” Avernus explained. “As my body decayed, I found ways to extend it. But that can only go so far. Over the past year I have come to realize that my time is coming to an end. I have been plagued with dreams and visions."

“We dream of it, too,” Daylen said. “You may have some time, yet. You’re dreaming of the Blight.”

Avernus’s expression darkened. “There is a Blight in Thedas?”

“The darkspawn emerged in the Korcari Wilds over a year ago,” Daylen informed him. “We’ve sighted the Archdemon.”

“And the Wardens need a proper base,” Avernus finished. “Well then, that explains your presence here.”

"If only we had more time, we could stage from here," Daylen agreed. "We could build a proper base against Loghain, rather than this slapdash army."

"Who is this Loghain?" Avernus asked.

"Teyrn of Gwaren, unlawful regent," Daylen replied bluntly.

Avernus looked surprised. "A member of the Voric family? They hardly seem the type. I knew them."

"The Vorics have been dead for decades," Daylen explained. "Killed during the Orlesian occupation."

Avernus blinked. Considering he hadn't blinked since the group walked in, that was more a sign of his surprise than anything. "The Orlesians _invaded Ferelden?_ "

"And occupied it," Daylen said darkly. "Ruled the place for nearly a century. Loghain Mac Tir and Maric Theirin drove them out, but they ravaged the country and they're still keeping an eye on us and supposedly watching for us to be weak enough that they could take another shot at conquering us. The Wardens were only allowed back in Ferelden twenty years ago, and the Fereldan chapter of the order was wiped out barring Alistair and myself about a year ago. What happened to this place?"

“What use would storytelling serve?” Avernus sighed. “The tyrant Arland is long dead. As is all our noble co-conspirators and the grand rebellion. Sophia’s corpse may walk and talk, but she too is no more.”

“We’ve lost much of the history about that time period,” Daylen replied. “How was Arland a tyrant? What happened to the rebellion?”

“Arland ruled by fear and poison. His treachery pit noble against noble in terrible battle,” the blood mage spat. “We thought him a monster, and gathered allies to rebel. But the toll of years has erased our failure, hasn’t it? It seemed so pressing then, but the kingdom lives on. As for the rebellion? Too many mouths to quiet. Even sorcery can only go so far. So we met with Teyrn Cousland. With him on our side, we had a chance of victory. Instead, the king’s guard ambushed us. Commander Dryden and I barely escaped.”

Daylen seized on the name. “Speaking of Sophia Dryden, her great-great-grandson brought me here. Levi?”

“Master mage, uh, ser,” Levi said nervously. “My family name has been worth less than dirt for over a century. Do you have any proof that Sophia was a hero?”

“The boy who braved the mists,” Avernus realized. “So you heeded my call. And you are a Dryden? The cosmos has a sense of humor.”

“Your call?” Daylen asked.

“He was but a boy when he entered the tunnels below the peak. His heart pure. His character certain. In dreams I gave him the keys he would need. He would be my deliverance.”

“So when you said I wouldn’t believe how you found the way, you weren’t kidding,” Daylen surmised, looking at Levi.

“Your great-great-grandmother was the best of us,” Avernus told Levi. “Brave, charismatic, fiery. Utterly devoted to the fight. But still we lost. We fought against a tyrant, you know? So full of vigor, then. So blind to consequence. But proof?” The mage sighed, spreading his hands. “There’s none to be had.”

“I’m sorry, Levi,” Daylen said sincerely.

“I…I had hoped,” Levi replied. “But thank you, Warden.”

“What was the purpose of your experiments?” Daylen asked. “I know that you aimed to stop the demons you had summoned, but clearly you went beyond that.”

“Blood magic comes from demons,” Avernus said. “They could counter every bit of lore I knew. But the darkspawn taint? _That_ is alien to them. And it has power. The Wardens merely use it to sense darkspawn. A triviality. My research has discovered so much more, and hinted at even greater heights. This knowledge could not only save Soldier’s Peak – with it, the Wardens could grow even more powerful!”

“And to make these discoveries, you sacrificed your fellow Wardens?” Daylen asked incredulously.

“It was necessary,” Avernus snapped. “It was _vital_. The few meager years of life they had would have spent trapped in this tower were nothing compared to the greater goal. I gave their death meaning.”

“You’re no better than the demons,” Daylen replied coldly. “You know this is wrong.”

“I have done what I must,” Avernus insisted. “But you shall be my judge. When you have what you need of me, I’ll accept your judgment.”

“On that note, what do we do with you?” Daylen asked.

“With the Veil mended as it is, I would seek to continue my experiments in peace,” Avernus replied. “Perhaps I could advance the Warden’s knowledge further.”

Daylen glared at him, weighing the options. “All right. Warden Avernus, you are to remain here at Soldier’s Peak. You’ll continue your research, but humanely. I don’t want you torturing Wardens or anyone else.”

“Without test subjects? Without…other materials? You would cripple my efforts!” Daylen glared at him harder, and the blood mage sighed. “But I will do what I can in this endeavor. I have little hope of discovering anything useful.”

“If you can replicate your alchemical results, I’ll see what I can do about getting you further research materials, within reason,” Daylen promised. “But none of that can happen until we can make contact with other Wardens.” The Warden gave the old mage a weak smile. “You see, the Wardens are outlaws again. Wrongfully accused of treason and regicide by Loghain.”

“The more things change,” Avernus muttered.

“Levi, Leliana, Zevran, could you give us some privacy?” Daylen asked. “Don’t head all the way back just yet, but Avernus, Alistair, and I need a word in private.”

As the others left, Daylen rounded on Avernus. “All right. I need some Warden answers, and quickly. You’re a Senior Warden. Alistair was in the order six months before I joined, and I was only a Warden for a few hours before everyone else in the chapter was killed. Neither of us know how to perform the Joining, how to kill the Archdemon, or most anything else about being a Warden beyond sensing darkspawn, the Calling, and resistance to the Taint.”

Avernus stared at him. “What sort of irresponsible-” He bit off the sentence, not noticing or not caring about Alistair glaring at him murderously. “All right. Have a seat, gentlemen.” The trio pulled up chairs in the sanctum, Avernus sitting down slowly as his joints protested. “Have you ever wondered,” he began, “why the First Blight lasted over a hundred years? Why the great Tevinter Imperium, with all their magical and military strength, could not put paid to one dragon, large though it might be?”

“I had wondered, quite often, in fact,” Alistair admitted.

“The Old God Dumat was killed several times during the course of the Blight,” Avernus explained. “But it didn’t stay dead.” Daylen’s eyes narrowed, and the mage continued. “It survived through the Taint. As the body was slain, the powerful spirit of the beast jumped to the nearest darkspawn through the Taint. Upon that darkspawn’s death, it simply moved on. Annihilating an entire horde meant little if the Archdemon itself survived. And if the brave warriors and mages who became the first Wardens had not given their lives in thousands upon thousands of experiments to adapt to the Taint, the First Blight would likely have been the last. Being able to kill the Archdemon was simply a lucky accident.”

Then things clicked for Daylen.

Why the Grey Wardens were needed to fight the Blight.

What _really_ set them aside from the rank and file.

Using the Taint to kill the Archdemon.

Why the Grey Warden who struck the killing blow on an Archdemon was never mentioned in further historical records.

The Warden turned to his best friend, his face ashen. "One of us is going to die."

—ROTG—

_Sophia Dryden  
“Sophia Dryden is Ferelden’s light and her most brilliant jewel; nothing on this earth can ever quench her fire.”_

_Arlessa Sophia Dryden was the young Arland’s rival for the throne of Ferelden. Dryden was a strong and charismatic leader with much support from the Bannorn. When Arland finally won the crown, Dryden refused to relent. She pushed her claim, was caught, and accused of treason. Her sympathizers continued to support her, however. In order to appease them, Dryden was spared execution, and forced to join the Grey Wardens instead._

_Dryden survived the Joining and dazzled the Grey Wardens at Soldier’s Peak with her leadership skills and charm. She eventually rose through the ranks to become Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Before Commander Dryden, the Grey Wardens were seen as a relic of an older time and an unnecessary drain on the nobles’ coffers. Dryden, though, with her political connections, reinvigorated the Wardens and rapidly increased their numbers._

_In the meantime, Arland proved himself a devious king, willing to go to brutal lengths to silence his opponents. Arland’s reign of terror grew worse with each passing year, and some of the banns approached Commander Dryden in desperation, begging her to intercede. She agreed, and thus was the rebellion against King Arland born._

_Arland learned of the rebellion and took steps to end it. He publicly suspended all tithing to the Grey Wardens and declared they were no longer welcome in Ferelden. Some of the Wardens, mindful that they were supposed to remain politically neutral, felt disgraced by Dryden’s involvement in Fereldan politics and left her side even as the king’s forces lay siege to Soldier’s Peak. The siege took months and ended with the death of Sophia Dryden._

_\--From the personal files of Levi Dryden, merchant_

_King Arland had driven the Grey Wardens from Ferelden, and after the siege of Soldier’s Peak, the base was abandoned. When Soldier’s Peak was finally entered again for the first time in centuries, it was discovered that Sophia Dryden had been possessed by a demon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Young Frankenstein. [ return to text ]


	29. Arrival in Denerim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes get some bad news, our endgame begins, and a new player enters the field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017. I broke eighty thousand words today. I guess being unemployed and in a quiet house (dogsitting for a friend) means I can crank out five thousand works a freaking day. As it stands, I've completed this fic (hence the total chapter number being present instead of a question mark now) and I'll be posting the updates over the next couple weeks.

_The History of Soldier's Peak  
The Grey Warden base at Soldier's Peak was built in the middle of the Glory Age, several decades after the second Blight was ended. Before then, Grey Wardens in Ferelden would take up residence in castles and forts that belonged to generous nobles. Warden-Commander Gaspar Asturian desired a fortified headquarters where his forces could train and live. He planned that Soldier's Peak would be a city unto itself. The defeat of the archdemon Zazikel was fresh in the minds of the Fereldan people, and many were willing to donate gold to build Commander Asturian's fortress._

_Soldier's Peak was fully completed within 10 years, and dedicated to the Maker in 9:34 Glory._

_As he approached his 60th year, rumors swirled that the corruption in Warden-Commander Asturian's blood was beginning to take its toll. According to reports from that time, the commander experienced terrifying waking dreams and heard his name whispered from the dark corners of Soldier's Peak. It is said that Asturian would spend hours locked up alone in the Great Hall of the base, muttering to himself, though no one was ever able to make out what he was saying. Many also believed that Asturian began, in secret, to draw up plans to expand his fortress, adding to it hidden passages and alcoves, all to protect himself from the shadows that pursued him._

_No one knows whether Asturian was able to complete his project, for his deterioration had become obvious to anyone who spent any amount of time with him. He was quickly replaced by Warden-Commander Frida Halwic. Asturian was taken to Orzammar, where he submitted to the Calling, the last rite of the Grey Wardens, and went to his death with honor._

_After Asturian's death, the rumors and theories became increasingly outlandish. One of the more ridiculous rumors told of Asturian's infatuation with an elven princess of lore, whom he was trying to resurrect in a secret ritual chamber through the use of blood magic and the princess's favorite food, raspberry jam._

_Warden-Commander Frida Halwic launched a thorough investigation into Asturian's “secret plans” but was unable to uncover any evidence that anything in Soldier's Peak had been changed. Commander Halwic declared that the rumors about Asturian were a slight on his memory and that anyone found repeating them would be harshly punished. The stories were thus silenced._

_There was one mystery, however, that persisted, and this mystery perplexed even Commander Halwic herself. When Commander Asturian went to his Calling in the Deep Roads, he did not have in his hand his sword, Asturian's Might, forged for him by dwarven smiths and presented to him upon the completion of Soldier's Peak. Nor did he pass the sword on to his successor, or to any other Grey Warden._

_While some maintained that Asturian had simply destroyed the sword in his dotage, others believed he had stashed it away somewhere in Soldier's Peak. One young Warden claimed that Asturian had once grabbed him by the shoulders, fixed him with an unwavering gaze and said, “The sword will remind you what it is to be a Warden. Speak your oath to me, when the shadows come. You must speak the words.”_

_What this was supposed to mean was never made clear._

_\--From The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden, by Brother Genitivi, Chantry scholar._

—ROTG—

Alistair looked over at Daylen in confusion. “Die? What? Why?” He thought about it a moment, before his eyes widened. “ _Oh._ ”

Avernus nodded. “You two are wiser than you appear. The Grey Warden who strikes the killing blow on the Archdemon dies. The Archdemon’s essence leaps to the nearest Tainted body – in this case, a Grey Warden, who unlike a darkspawn is not an empty, soulless vessel. The essence of the Archdemon and the soul of the Grey Warden collide, and both die. It is the only way we know to permanently kill an Archdemon.” He smirked humorlessly. “And although I would attempt to find an alternate method, testing it would be rather impractical.”

Daylen stood up, leaving the room. “Not everyone has the stomach to hear these things,” Avernus remarked.

“Don’t run off,” Alistair said, following his friend.

Alistair didn’t have to look far to find Daylen – the Warden was standing on the bridge, looking out at the landscape. His face was stormy, and magic was actively sparking between his fingers.

“Did you know?” Daylen asked, not looking at Alistair.

“What?”

“The sacrifice. Did you know?”

Alistair sighed. “No. But I suspected there was something Duncan wasn’t telling me. Something about how the Blight ends.”

“Duncan,” Daylen spat, the air growing thick with mana. “That lying bastard. He knew he wasn’t making it out of Ostagar. They knew that battle couldn’t be won, all of them did. Cailan knew, Loghain knew, Duncan knew, even Richu knew, _so why did they leave us with nothing_? No supplies, no information, not a blasted thing!” He lashed out, a bolt of lightning streaking from his hand into the sky. “So why should we care? Why try?”

“You’re willing to walk away from all this?” Alistair asked. “You’re willing to quit on Ferelden?”

“Do you think that the Wardens haven’t quit already?” Daylen challenged. “Look at this! The Fereldan Wardens are _gone_! Neither of us knew _anything_ about this, and you still think that we can pull this off? What other secrets don’t we know about? We don’t even know what we don’t know! And the other Wardens don’t give a toss! Have we seen or heard a blasted thing from them? It’s not like we’re hard to find! We’ve left a trail of destruction a blind child could follow, and anyone with any information on Ferelden could find us without much trouble. Have the Wardens said or done _anything_ about the Blight? Because I guarantee you, they know it’s a Blight just as much as we do! Any amount of Wardens could have snuck across the border or through the ports by now and tried to organize some sort of a resistance against the darkspawn. Where are they?”

Alistair crossed his arms, staring his friend down. “I don’t know. And I don’t care.”

“How can you not?” Daylen asked incredulously. “They hung us out to dry. They’ve written us off. To them, we’re not just expendable, we’re already expended. They’ve accepted not just Duncan, not just us, but _all of Ferelden_ as a loss. How can you not care?”

“Because when I became a Warden, I took it upon myself to fight the darkspawn and end the Blight, alone if I had to,” Alistair said stubbornly. “Wardens fight the darkspawn by any means necessary. That includes doing it on your own. And if the other Wardens aren’t going to back us up, then we’re just going to have to do it alone.” Daylen hung his head, his shaggy hair obscuring his face. “I decided to follow you because I felt you had what it takes to win this. Now I have to know. Was I right? Do you have what it takes? Or are you going to give up?” Daylen remained still for a moment, before his shoulders began to shake. “I…are you crying?” Alistair asked.

Daylen shook his hair out of his eyes, a grin stretching his face. “No, I was laughing,” the Warden replied. “You are going to make a great king someday, Alistair.”

“Let’s not get too hasty with that,” the warrior muttered.

“I remember reading this old story, back at the Circle,” Daylen said quietly, looking out at the landscape again. “Probably nonsense, at least the details of it, but there's always one quote that stuck with me. 'Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity. And so we ask ourselves: will our actions echo across the centuries? Will strangers hear our names long after we're gone and wonder who we were? How bravely we fought? How fiercely we loved?'” Daylen looked over at his friend “Until just now I wondered what we would leave behind if we won, but died in the attempt. If people would know who we were and what we did.”[1]

“And you don't wonder that anymore?”

“Oh, I do,” Daylen replied calmly. “I just don't care. We're going to get hurt doing this. Unless we can get more Wardens involved, one of us is going to die. But we're going to kill that Archdemon. We're going to end the Blight.” The Warden extended a hand to Alistair. “I'm sorry for doubting.”

Alistair clasped hands with him. “Let's go finish this.”

The two returned to Avernus, the mage waiting expectantly. “Have you come to terms with this news?”

“Hardly,” Daylen muttered. “But this secret? It’s gotten a lot of people killed. Loghain seemed skeptical of our necessity – if he knew _why_ we were necessary to end a Blight…”

“It is a central secret of our order,” Avernus pointed out mildly. “No one would voluntarily become a Grey Warden if it were known what could be asked of them.”

Daylen waited for Avernus to continue. “…So what?” he asked as the blood mage remained silent. “That’s what the Right of Conscription is for. It’s not like there wouldn’t be people willing to sacrifice themselves. You fight darkspawn, there are going to be casualties. Better that the recruits go into it with their eyes open than have a load of secrets sprung on them at inopportune moments.”

“Daylen,” Alistair sighed. “Can you tell us anything else about the Peak?”

“The Coast Mountains are granite,” Avernus explained. “The darkspawn are known to avoid trying to tunnel through granite, and as such the Peak has never been attacked by darkspawn. However, that results in the nearest Deep Roads entrance being in Amaranthine, as well as the West Hills.”

“I think that’s the one we came out of on the way back from the Anvil,” Daylen remarked.

“There is one in Drake’s Fall, although I would wager that it has been forgotten over time. It was concealed and heavily fortified.”

“All right,” Daylen said. “I’m going to need you to record as much as you can regarding the darkspawn, the Deep Roads, how to perform the Joining, and anything else you think we don’t know. The rest of the Grey Wardens haven’t been worth a fart in a hurricane, so we need any information you can give us. We’re staying the night.”

“We do have to go take care of Sophia,” Alistair reminded him.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot about her.”

“The demon lives?” Avernus asked.

“I bluffed her into sealing the Veil, saying I would come up here and kill you,” Daylen replied. “Several more of my companions are waiting downstairs. If Sophia tries anything, they’ll rip her apart. I planned to kill her anyway as soon as I got back there.”

“Very wise,” Avernus said approvingly. “Shall I accompany you?”

“Wait until we all jump Sophia,” Daylen replied. “If she sees you, she’ll attack. This way we can retain the element of surprise.”

As the two younger Wardens headed back to finish off the demon, Daylen paused, looking at the alchemical concoction that sat on the table in the study next to Avernus’s notes. “Might as well,” he muttered, pulling the cork out and downing the noxious potion.

It felt like his insides were twisting around, and Daylen dropped to one knee, gasping in pain as his vision blurred. But there was power in the pain wracking his body, and a hint of understanding.

“You all right?” Alistair asked.

“I think so,” Daylen coughed out, standing up straight. “I feel…I feel…I feel kinda good.” A grin spread across his face. “Oh, wow.” The Warden bounced on the balls of his feet, cracking his neck. “You have got to try that.”

“No, thanks,” Alistair replied. “I drank blood once. Not doing it again.”

Daylen shrugged. “Race you back.” He took off at a trot, wading through the snowdrift back across the bridge.

Leliana and Zevran were waiting for them just outside the door to the keep, and Daylen signaled for them to follow as he re-entered the building.

“This one _rages_!” Sophia shouted as she spotted Daylen. “The tower still stands! The Avernus lives! This one is betrayed!”

“What, you expected me to actually follow through?” Daylen asked incredulously. “You’re dumber than I thought.”

“You are an oathbreaker!” Sophia howled. “You are scum!”

“Yo, she-bitch!” Daylen called, spinning his staff. “Let's go.”

“I'll swallow your soul!” The demon howled.

“ _Come get some_ ,” Daylen hissed.[2]

Then Sophia’s head exploded, rotting pieces of flesh spraying around the room. Everyone ducked, and Daylen threw up a shield reflexively, pieces of dead Warden bouncing off the magical barrier. The body teetered forward and backward for a moment before falling to the floor, the armor clattering like an armful of pots and pans tossed down the stairs.

Daylen dropped the shield a moment later, looking at the body. “What the bloody shite was that?”

“What?” Jowan asked, his hands still sparking. “You telling me you _weren’t_ going to do that?”

Daylen snorted out a laugh. “Well, I _was_ , but that was impressive.”

“I figured why wait,” the blood mage said with a shrug.

“Impressive,” Avernus said from the doorway. “A great deal of power for one so young.”

“Who’s he?” Jowan asked.

“Another Warden,” Daylen replied. Wynne twitched, a tic in her cheek betraying her sensing the mage’s potential. Morrigan remained stone-faced, but her eyes narrowed slightly. Jowan’s eyes widened as he felt the power radiating from the man. “Everyone, this is Avernus, a Grey Warden. Yes, that Avernus. Avernus, you’ve met Alistair, Leliana, and Zevran. That’s Wynne, Morrigan, Jowan, who’s a Warden recruit, Oghren’s the dwarf, the Qunari is Sten, and the golem is Shale.”

“Is that a name or what it’s made of?” Avernus asked.

“It is my name,” Shale replied. “And if it does not wish to be crushed, it will not make that joke again.”

“I meant no offense,” Avernus apologized. “It will not happen again.”

“So we’re going to stay the night,” Daylen explained. “Tomorrow, we’ll head back down the mountain and to Denerim. We’ve…gotten a lot of information that we needed, and the Wardens now have a base in the country. All around, I’d call this an almost resounding success.”

“Almost?” Wynne echoed. “Why almost?”

“Because after everything was said and done, Levi didn’t get what he needed,” Daylen said. “Again, I’m sorry.”

“I know, Warden,” Levi replied. “There was no proof to redeem my family.”

Daylen clapped him on the shoulder. “Your great-great-grandmother, I’m not sure about. But you’re a good man, Levi. The past may not offer redemption, but why not try the future, instead?”

“For so long, I was focused on the past. On answers,” the trader said. “Maybe I would have been better off had I stayed at home. You’ve got a whole fortress now. I suppose I should start plying my trade again.”

Daylen scratched his chin. “Any chance I could convince you to stay on? If the Grey Wardens are going to base at this fortress again, we’re going to need a trader.”

Levi thought about it for a moment. “My cousins have been looking for a safe place to store trade goods…and the Peak _would_ do nicely…”

“Plus, there’s plenty of work to be done, and we’d need a good businessman to make some deals for us,” Daylen offered.

“My brother _is_ an excellent blacksmith…” A smile began to spread across his face. “Warden, you might have something there. Whatever the Drydens have to offer are yours, for a sizeable discount!”

The two shook hands. “There’s plenty of space, so just grab one of the warehouses to store your goods,” Daylen offered. “You should be plenty safe up here. If you intend to start cleaning the place up, I’d suggest starting with the gate. Just replace the rope and the other damaged parts and it should be functional again.”

The group cleared the remains out of the rooms, setting them aside for proper disposal and recovering Sophia’s armor. They were setting up bedrolls for the evening when Wynne pulled Daylen aside. “So how’s he still alive?” she asked without preamble. Daylen gave a quick rundown of how Avernus had survived the centuries. “You’re letting him live?” Wynne asked quietly when he finished.

“Wynne, you felt that power coming off him as much as I do. I’m powerful, but Avernus is a league beyond either of us. I’m not sure we  _could_ kill him. Flemeth wasn’t that powerful. Or if she was, she was hiding it well. The man is pushing two hundred, and if he’s been here that long he’s got more combat experience than our entire group combined, except maybe for Shale.”

“Is he truly that dangerous?” Leliana asked.

Daylen gave her a weak smile. “I have never felt a magical presence that strong. I expect a dagger in the neck would kill him, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to try it. You know how some crazy blood mages talk about unlocking true power?  _That_ is true power. If Avernus wanted to, he could probably blow this whole fortress off the mountain.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Then why don’t we point him at the Archdemon?”

“There’s another angle,” Daylen replied. “He happens to want to work with us. He could have squashed us all like bugs. But he also has two hundred years of research.”

“Built on torture and blood magic,” Wynne pointed out.

“One of which is regularly practiced by nobles, and the other that is perfectly legal for Wardens,” Daylen shot back. “By any means necessary, Wynne.” The enchanter scowled, but fell silent.

“So am I supposed to join you after this?” Jowan asked.

Daylen shook his head. “I would bring you along, but we don’t currently have what we need to perform the Joining, and considering you’re one of the top three wanted men in Ferelden right now, bringing you to the Landsmeet just might be asking for trouble. You’ll stay here. If Alistair and I both somehow die, it’ll be up to you and Avernus to stop the Blight in Ferelden.” The mage paled, and Daylen shot his friend a grin. “No pressure, right? We’ve done the hard part, though.”

Later that evening, Daylen found Morrigan in Sophia’s old quarters, reading the late Warden-Commander’s journal. “The Warden-Commander was sent to the Wardens rather than be hanged for treason,” Morrigan said, looking up from the journal as he approached. “Arland and Sophia could each have taken the throne, but the nobles felt Arland would be easier to control. Sophia took over the Wardens and decided to overthrow the king with her new army.”

“Shame it all fell apart,” Daylen replied. “If she had taken the throne, the Wardens might have been better prepared for this Blight.” He bent down, planting a kiss on Morrigan’s neck, but the witch shied away from his touch.

“I…I think not,” she said.

Daylen paused. “Is something wrong?”

She snorted disdainfully. “Because something must be amiss with me in order to refuse your charms? You’ll forgive me if I do not leap at your command like a trained warhound!”

“I don’t expect you to leap at my command,” Daylen replied softly. “Cupcake doesn’t, either.”

“It…I simply…” Morrigan sighed. “I do not wish to discuss it. Leave me be.”

—ROTG—

The next morning, the group descended the mountain, Levi heading west to Highever to pass word to his family. The Warden and his companions turned east, following the Imperial Highway towards Denerim. They made camp off the road that evening, setting up their usual defenses.

“There you are,” Oghren said as Daylen sat down next to him, a bowl of stew in hand. “Wanted to talk to you.”

“Go ahead,” Daylen replied, looking up from his food. “Hope you don’t mind if I eat along.”

“You and I, we’ve…” The dwarf paused. “You know how sometimes, you spend time with…people, and things…hm.”

“I love you too, Oghren,” Daylen said.

“I – what?” The dwarf sputtered. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em! Sheesh, can’t a man address a friend without getting all…weird?”

“Sorry, Oghren, don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Daylen replied. “Take your time. What’s on your mind?”

“I was just asking a favor,” Oghren grumbled. “You had to go all… _that_ on me. I was thinking, I do know some people out here on the surface. A person, actually. Girl I knew in Orzammar. Before I left, obviously.”

“A girl you knew, or a girl you _knew_?” Daylen asked, raising an eyebrow on the last word.

“What? You mean were we rutting? Oh, aye. After Branka left for the Deep Roads. Name’s Felsi, and she was a _fiery_ one. I’m sure she’s forgiven me by now. Thought maybe I’d track her down. See how she’s been living.”

“I have many questions,” Daylen said, wondering what Oghren had done that Felsi had presumably forgiven him for. “But I’ll save them for another time. Considering Branka was cheating on you with Hespith, I can’t fault you for having your own fling. What’s she doing on the surface?”

“What? Why are you asking me?” Oghren asked defensively. “I didn’t do anything. I tried to look her up the last time we were at Lake Calenhad. She wasn’t at work at the time. At home with her sick mother, they said. I figured it was just the ancestors telling me something…but I keep thinking about her.”

“There’s something here you’re not telling me,” Daylen replied.

“Ach! You suspicious sack of pebbles! You always have to think the worst of someone.”

Daylen snorted. “Oghren,  I thought we were friends.”

Oghren groaned. “You whipped out the knife, didn’t you.”

“I’ll have you know I haven’t whipped out anything in days,” Daylen sniffed.

Oghren chuckled. “Look, Felsi and me, we didn’t leave things on the best of terms. She was jealous of Branka, and she got to be controlling. And Oghren, he was meant to be free. Know what I mean? Anyway, she couldn’t handle everyone wishing they could be with me. So she left. Honest truth.”

“I don’t believe you,” Daylen said immediately.

“Well, it’s my side of the story,” Oghren insisted. “I don’t give sod-all what you believe. So are we doing this or not?”

“We’ll pass by Lake Calenhad on the way back to Redcliffe,” Daylen replied, downing the last of his stew. “We’ll find her.”

“Well and a good friend you are, Warden,” Oghren said gratefully. “I’ll think about you if we ever…” he paused. “No, actually, that would be gross.”

“So how are you liking the surface?” Daylen asked.

“It’s sodding great,” Oghren replied. “At first I was a little queasy, with  all that air, but…there’s just so much of it! No one has any idea who you are. Or what you’re doing. And the ale! Who’d have thought, ale made with grain! Orzammar ale tastes like dirt. Usually because they put dirt in it. Aye, the surface is great. It’s like a big, bright world of filth without a ceiling. My kind of place.”

Daylen snickered. “Oghren, you’re a treasure. So you don’t miss Orzammar?”

“What, miss Orzammar?” Oghren asked incredulously. “Are you mad, in addition to being ugly? They treated me like a puddle-fly back there. I’m never going back.”

“What’s it like living there?”

“You get a sword or axe and are told to go out and defend your city. It’s the best thing in the world, at least until you try to _live_ in the city you saved. I mean, they train you to kill, to harness your rage at the first noise you hear, then try to set a hundred sodding rules about it. Like those Provings. Ancestors show their favor through the strongest arm, right? So why so many rules saying how to fight and when you win, and not to bloody kill? Killing’s what swords are for!”

“Why didn’t they just give you blunted weapons?” Daylen asked.

“You can kill with blunted weapons, Warden,” Oghren sighed. “Well, maybe _you_ can’t. But berserkers can.”

“What’s it like being one?”

“What the sod is there to know? You get mad, you fly into battle, and things die. It’s pretty simple. The hard part is getting in touch with your rage. We all learn to hold that back. It’s why we don’t kill every duster who looks at us sideways. You need to shut that off. For some people, being in battle is enough. But others have to think about something. Violence, monsters, nobles, your wife, whatever. For most berserkers, that works. Several years ago, I worked with a berserker on one expedition who just couldn’t work himself up. We had to kick him in the stones before he could get going. It’s a tactic to enrage your enemy so he makes a mistake, right? Berserkers grab that anger and drink t like it’s yesterday’s ale. Then we turn it against our foes and watch the limbs fly.”

“Well, it certainly seems effective,” Daylen said. He paused, before pressing on. “Are you sure you’re fine with what happened with Branka?”

“Oh, sure, I’m fine with it,” Oghren said. “I mean, she was a real firebrand between the sheets, but a bit soft in the skull, you know what I mean? Explains why she left, anyway.”

“Do you wish we could have saved her?”

Oghren sobered. “Yes, I wish I could have saved Branka. I wish I could have been a better mate; maybe she would have stayed home with a belly full of baby Oghren and never gone for the Anvil. Maybe I failed her. My family is dead, my honor as a warrior long gone. I've lost my caste and my house, and I have nothing else to lose. But at the end of it, by the time we got there, there was nothing left of the woman I married. Just the Anvil.”

“You can't blame yourself for everything in the world.”

“I _don't_ ,” Oghren said bitterly. “Just for that. I was her husband, Daylen. Who else could I hold responsible?”

“Why would she leave a prize bull by like yourself?”

“Woman was a few columns short of a hall, you know? I mean, she leaves me and flits about with that watered tart Hespith. What’s she got that I don’t?” Daylen opened his mouth to reply, but Oghren continued. “Just the thought of the two of them together, kissing, licking, intertwined on the floor of the Deep Roads…” He trailed off. “I’m, ah, just gonna go back to the tent for a moment. Excuse me.”

As Oghren scuttled into his tent, Daylen shook his head, before turning his mind to other matters.

“Where are you off to with that?” Alistair asked as Daylen filled another bowl.

The mage looked nervous. “Going to see Morrigan.”

“You're taking her dinner?” Leliana asked gleefully. “Oh, my. Zevran, did her ever bring you dinner?”

“Not once,” the elf said. “Should I be offended?”

Daylen glared at them. “Are you lot done?”

“I don't know,” Zevran replied, looking around. “Are we?”

“I had a few more comments to make, but if you're in a hurry,” Leliana said as Daylen legged it.

“I...um...got you something,” Daylen said nervously as he approached Morrigan.

“Another ridiculous gift, I suppose,” Morrigan replied.

“Flowers,” Daylen specified, setting the bowl down next to her.

“I was right. Well, if you must,” Morrigan sighed.

Daylen held out a bouquet of elfroot. Morrigan eyed the plants, before looking Daylen in the eyes. After a brief pause, both mages burst out laughing. “Actually, that was just to open with, but I did get you something. Found it back in Orzammar, and I figured now was as good a time as any…” He unwrapped the package, a glint of gold and jewels catching the light.

“What have you there? A mirror?” Morrigan’s eyes widened as she unwrapped it completely. “It is…just the same as the mirror which Flemeth smashed on the ground, so long ago. It is incredible that you found one so like it. I am uncertain what to say.” She looked Daylen in the eyes, the mirror in her lap. “You must wish something in return, certainly.”

“It’s simply a present, for a beautiful woman,” Daylen said.

“I have…never received a gift,” Morrigan remarked. “Not one that did not also come with a price attached. Thank you, truly.”

“While I’m here…can we talk? When I tried to make a move, back at Soldier’s Peak…” The mage hadn’t intended to imply an obligation. The physicality of what they had was wonderful, but for longer than he could really identify, Daylen had been feeling a tugging towards Morrigan that didn’t originate from below the waist.

“Ah,” Morrigan said uncomfortably. “I am…not certain what to say.”

“Just tell me what you’re feeling,” Daylen pressed.

“I warned you, did I not?” The woman sounded frustrated. “I told you that this was a weakness that was driving me mad. And yet you insisted.” Morrigan looked cornered, the same look in her eye as the Warden had seen on apprentices facing two unwelcome options.

“Why are you so frightened of this?” Daylen asked. “What did I do?”

The witch stood, pacing. “You do not understand. ‘Tis all so…unexpected. I have no experience with any of it. And yet I find myself wanting it. Hungering for it. _For you_.” Morrigan turned, looking him in the eyes, her golden eyes shining with tears. “That is not right, is it? That is not how a normal woman acts? I can see it in your eyes.” She swallowed hard, her voice cracking. “Release me. Tell me that you wish to end this. Make me believe you and I…will be grateful.”

Daylen opened his mouth, and Morrigan looked hopeful. “I…I don’t want this to end,” he said finally, helplessly. “I don’t…”

“You miserable, selfish _bastard_ ,” she spat. Her hand met his cheek with a stinging slap, and Daylen gasped, surprised more than hurt by the blow.

Then her lips met his, desperate need in her kiss, the force of it nearly pushing him back a step. Daylen closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her, realizing that they had both fallen from the cliff, heedless of the consequences. “You selfish wretch,” she mumbled into his mouth, kissing him again, her hands at his jaw, cupping his face despite the tears running down her cheeks. “You will regret this. And so will I.” But at least he wasn’t falling alone. She finally pulled back, wiping tears from her face, ignoring the way it smeared pigment across her face. “And…perhaps that is how it must be.”

—ROTG—

They met Arl Eamon at his estate in Denerim, a large house that was set near the Denerim market square. The Arl immediately ushered them into his study when they arrived. “We are in a precarious position,” he said. “If we defeat Loghain here, the rest of the nation will follow us. By calling the Landsmeet, I’ve struck the first blow. The advantage, for the moment, is ours. He will have little choice but to show himself, to oppose us directly. If he wins at the Landsmeet, Maker forbid, he will be the legitimate king of Ferelden, and all will be lost. He will strike back at us. The only question that remains, is how soon?”

There was a knock at the door, and a servant came in, wide-eyed. “My lord, Teyrn Loghain is here! He awaits you in the main hall!”

There was a moment of silence as Arl Eamon stared at the servant. “Well, that didn’t take long,” Daylen quipped.

“Alistair, Daylen, come with me,” Eamon said. “Perhaps this can be resolved peacefully.”

Loghain was in full armor when they found him in the hall, a strongly-built woman in equally heavy armor next to him with a greatsword across her back. On Loghain’s other flank was a graying man with a hooked nose in leathers.

“Loghain,” Arl Eamon said stiffly. “This is…an honor, that the regent would find time to greet me personally.”

“How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?” Loghain asked tartly.

“The Blight is why I’m here,” Eamon insisted. “With Cailan dead, Ferelden _must_ have a king to lead it against the darkspawn.”

“Ferelden has a strong leader: its queen,” Loghain snapped. “And I lead her armies.”

“Considering Ostagar, perhaps we need a better general,” Daylen snarked.

“And who is this, Eamon?” Loghain asked. “Some new stray you picked up on the road? And here I thought it was only royal bastards you played the nursemaid to.”

Daylen could hear Alistair’s teeth grinding behind him. “Well, you’re admitting the royal part,” the warrior finally remarked. “That’s a start.”

“Don’t you recognize me, Loghain?” Daylen asked. “We met at the war council, before you betrayed Cailan and Ferelden.”

“You should curb your tongue,” Loghain snapped. “This is my city, and no safe place to speak treason, for anyone.”

“I thought Gwaren was your city,” Daylen replied. “Or did it cease to be such when you abandoned it and let the darkspawn burn it to the ground?”

“There is talk that your illness left you feeble, Eamon,” Loghain continued, ignoring the Warden even as his second glared at him. “Some worry that you may no longer be fit to advise Ferelden.”

“Illness?” Eamon scoffed. “Why not call your poison by its true name? Not everyone at the Landsmeet will cast aside their loyalties as easily as you and these sycophants.”

“How long you’ve been gone from court, Eamon!” Loghain jeered. “Don’t you recognize Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, and Teyrn of Highever?”

“And current Arl of Denerim,” Howe added, “since Urien’s unfortunate fate at Ostagar. The regent has been…generous to those who prove loyal.”

“Boot-licking appears to be profitable these days,” Daylen remarked.

“Quiet, churl,” The woman snapped. “Your betters are speaking.”

Daylen blinked, turning to Alistair. “I’m sorry, Alistair, did I interrupt you?” The man shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. The mage looked over to Eamon. “Arl Eamon, did I interrupt you?” Without waiting, Daylen looked back to her. “Then who did I interrupt?” Daylen gasped in mock surprise. “Are you speaking of the regicide and the horse’s ass who killed the Couslands?”

“Warden!” Eamon snapped. “You are not helping matters.”

Daylen’s eyes never left Loghain’s. “Oh, I would  _love_ to help matters, Eamon.” The mage smiled, but his eyes were hard as flint. “Tell you what, Loghain. How about you and I settle this, right now. No seconds, no politics, just me ripping your spine out through your arse and beating the stupid out of you with it.”

“Enough!” Eamon barked. “Warden, stand down.”

“I don’t know why you don’t get it yet, Eamon,” Daylen shot back. “ _I don’t answer to you_. There are two people on this entire continent that I would answer to. One is standing in this room and hasn’t said a word to me yet. The other is the First Warden. If you want to go get him, by all means, start walking.”

“Daylen,” Alistair murmured, setting a gauntleted hand on his friend’s shoulder.

The mage let out a breath, allowing himself to be pulled backwards slightly by Alistair. “When the time comes, Loghain, it’s going to be just you and me. Remember that.”

The woman reached for her sword, but Loghain held up a hand. “Cauthrien, this is not the time or place.” Loghain looked to Eamon. “I had hoped to talk you down from this rash course, Eamon. Our people are frightened. Our king is dead. Our land is under siege. We must be united now, if we are to endure this crisis. Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought tirelessly to see Ferelden restored. Would you see her work destroyed?”

“Nobody’s threatening her work,” Eamon replied. “And you insult her memory by dragging her into this.”

“You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne.”

Alistair spoke up. “What efforts can there be when you outlaw the Grey Wardens?”

“Cailan depended on the Grey Wardens’ prowess against the darkspawn, and look how well that ended,” Loghain sneered. “Let us speak of reality, rather than tall tales. Stories will not save us.”

“I cannot forgive what you’ve done, Loghain,” Eamon sighed. “Perhaps the Maker can, but not I. Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline. Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory in this Blight.”

“The emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down,” Loghain warned. “Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is nothing I would not do for my homeland.”

“Except you didn’t bring him down, did you?” Daylen called as Loghain left.

Alistair shook his head. “That went poorly.”

“I would disagree,” Daylen replied. “They were never going to give up that easily. If Loghain was open to negotiations or even entertaining the slightest notion that he was wrong, he’d never have abandoned Cailan. This was a formality, nothing more.”

“Pre-fight trash talk?” Alistair asked. Daylen nodded, and Alistair shrugged. “Fine by me. But what did we gain from this, then?”

“We now have far more information on the enemy than we did before.” He gave Eamon a sly smile. “And they have faulty information on us.”

Alistair blinked in confusion. “How’d you manage that?”

“I paid attention,” Daylen replied. “Loghain did most of the talking – he prefers to lead from the front. If things come to violence, or a combat by champion, he’ll most likely step forward himself rather than nominate someone else. And if he doesn’t, that woman will.”

“Cauthrien,” Eamon supplied. “She’s his second-in-command, a fierce fighter and strongly disciplined.”

“A bit more hot-headed than Loghain, I would guess,” Daylen said, stroking his beard. “She was ready to fight right now. Loghain didn’t seem to care about my talking. He knew I wasn't really all that relevant in the grand scheme of things.” He shook his head. “I’d rather not fight either one of them, but if a woman that size with a greatsword is coming after me, I’d rather know more about her.”

Alistair nodded. “If Loghain trained her, or sees her worthy as his second, she’s bloody dangerous in a fight. And what about the other one? Arl Howe?”

“Howe scares me,” Daylen admitted. “If what we’ve heard here in Denerim is any indication, he’s a sadistic, heartless bastard. And he wasn’t looking at you, or at Arl Eamon. He was staring at me the entire time.”

Eamon raised an eyebrow. “And that scares you?”

“Between the three of us, which of us is capable of destroying a village single-handed in less than a day? He was watching what he saw to be the biggest threat.”

“All three of them were,” Eamon replied coolly.

Daylen paused. “I…” He flushed. “Sorry. I should have realized that you would have seen that.”

“This is not my first encounter, young man,” Eamon said with a chuckle. “But do go on.”

Daylen nodded. “Right. Cauthrien was watching you, Eamon, with your political power and troops backing you up. Loghain was watching Alistair, even as he spoke to you, because Alistair’s claim to the throne is a threat to his rule and his daughter’s position. But I think Howe was expecting things to turn violent. I don’t know, maybe he figured we’d try to assassinate Loghain then and there. Maybe he was hoping we would.”

“Would fit with Howe’s actions,” Eamon groused. “That wretch had the Couslands killed.”

“And he’ll pay for that,” Daylen replied.

“And how did we give them bad information?” Alistair asked.

“By how I acted back there. They now think I’m a hotheaded upstart with a chip on my shoulder.” Daylen paused, flashing them a grin. “And there’s an element of truth to that. But they also think I won’t listen to Arl Eamon’s advice, and that you’re the only one who can control me. They _also_ think that Eamon is the voice of reason, and that you are indifferent to Loghain.” Daylen idly scratched his beard. “I just hope they believe it.”

“We need eyes and ears in this city,” Eamon declared. “Loghain has been here for months. The roots of all his schemes must begin here. The sooner we find them, the sooner we can turn them to our advantage.”

“And the sooner we can rip the whole rotted tree out of the garden,” Daylen finished. “We’ve been here before, but we’ll look around, see what else we can turn up.”

“Find the other nobles that have arrived for the Landsmeet as well,” Eamon suggested. “Test the waters, see how many will support us. Some will side with me out of respect or familiarity, but the more we can weaken Loghain’s power base, the better chance we have of deposing him. When you are ready, come back here and we can discuss further strategy.”

Daylen nodded. “Everyone, get settled in.”

“Any ideas on how to deal with Loghain?” Alistair asked.

“I  _think_  I'm going to employ violence,” Daylen growled. “This stupid fuck abandoned his king, abandoned the one group capable of fighting Darkspawn effectively, abandoned half a goddamn army, made us into wanted men, and in case it isn't clear,  _he's kind of a prick._  I'm debating breaking both his legs, then dropping my pants and slapping him with my fun bits until he admits how stupid he's been.”

Leliana frowned. “You two have been getting awfully grim lately.”

Daylen sighed. “I may have endless compassion and a strong sense of what is right and wrong, but let's face it. Loghain is an  _asshole_.”

It didn’t take long for the group to unpack into several of the guest bedrooms in the estate, and Daylen dropped his pack on the bed, immediately heading for Arl Eamon’s study.

Alistair was already in the study. “Good, you’re here,” he said. “Arl Eamon has had some armor made for us out of that dragon we killed in Haven.”

“A monstrous beast, I’m told,” Eamon added. “Speak to Wade, at Wade’s Emporium. He can ensure the armor is properly fitted. I trust your companions have made themselves comfortable.”

“Beats sleeping in a tent, which is how we’ve been living most nights,” Daylen replied. “But I was hoping for silk sheets and candied grapes.”

Eamon snorted. “Why don’t we ensure Loghain won’t have us all executed first, and worry about how to celebrate later?”

“You’re the noble,” Daylen acknowledged as Leliana entered the room, nodding a greeting to her. “What’s the plan?”

“There are several influential Arls and Banns you need to speak with,” Eamon explained. “If you can secure their loyalties, the rest should fall in line. Arl Bryland of South Reach can almost certainly be counted on to support us. Arl Wulff, however, may not be so easy to sway. He’s a good man, and a great deal of lesser Banns will follow his lead. The West Hills have been overrun, and I hear his sons died helping evacuate the arling. Bann Sighard, Bann Alfstanna, and Bann Ceorlic each command large voting blocs, and while Sighard and Alfstanna could go either way, Ceorlic is a staunch ally of Loghain. His lands border Gwaren, so he may do so out of fear.”

“So Arl Wulff, Banns Sighard and Alfstanna,” Daylen repeated. “Well, we’ll see what we can find.”

“My lord, a messenger from Queen Anora has arrived,” a servant announced. “In here.” An elf in finely-made clothing entered the room. “This is-”

“My name is Erlina,” the elf interrupted, an Orlesian accent tinging her voice. “I am Queen Anora’s handmaiden, and she sent me here to ask for your help.”

“Why would Anora ask us for help?” Daylen asked.

“The queen, she is in a difficult position. She loved her husband, no? And trusted her father to protect him. When he returns with no king and only dark rumors, what is she to think? She worries, no? But when she tries to speak with him, he does not answer.  He tells her ‘not to trouble herself.’”

“Still not seeing where our ‘help’ comes in,” Daylen said.

“So she goes to Howe. A visit from the queen to the new arl of Denerim is only a matter of courtesy. And she demands answers.”

Daylen growled. “The point, Erlina?”

“They now know she is a threat to her father’s power,” Erlina continued. “I think…her life is in danger. I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive. Especially if her death could be blamed on Arl Eamon.”

“And does she not simply leave, to get some distance between herself and the man who wants her dead?” Daylen asked.

“She is being held prisoner!” Erlina retorted.

“Holding the Queen prisoner,” Daylen sighed. “Right. Yes. Sure. Give me one good reason to believe this crazy story.”

“Because you do not want Loghain ruling Ferelden, and if Anora can speak at the Landsmeet, her voice would sway many nobles.” Leliana caught Daylen’s eye, glancing pointedly at the elf and nodding her head.

“We may have no choice but to trust Anora,” Eamon agreed. “The queen is well-loved. If Loghain succeeded in pinning her death on me…I’m not sure that’s a risk we can afford to take.”

“Tell me something, Erlina,” Daylen replied. “Where did you receive your bard training?”

The elf looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”

Leliana spoke up. “I recognize a bard’s standard gambit when I see one, Erlina. And even if I did not, we have met, you and I. It was years ago, at a fete in Orlais.”

“My queen needs your help,” Erlina insisted. “She sent me to ensure you could sneak in. I have brought the uniforms of Howe’s guards, and so many are hired every day that a few more will go unnoticed. I will show you to the servant’s entrance. We must slip in and out with my queen before anyone is the wiser. I will go ahead to Howe’s estate. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

“Right, we'll see you there,” Daylen said. “Beat it.” Erlina left, and Daylen looked to Eamon. “You can't seriously believe she was being honest.”

“We may have no choice,” Eamon sighed. “If she is in danger, we could use her gratitude. She would make a valuable ally.”

“No, she wouldn't,” Daylen snapped. “She'd be a massive liability, able to challenge Alistair for the throne. She already has the power! Why would she want to give that up to some undeclared bastard of Maric's? And that's assuming that she would be open to the idea of working with us, when for all she knows, Alistair and I killed her husband and want to kill her father next. Plus, if as you say, she was the real power behind the throne of Ferelden, what's to say she won't want to take charge of the fight and decide how we run things? I’ve had enough trouble doing things on my own without having somebody who thinks they know everything telling me how to do my job. There are too many open questions, Eamon.”

“Daylen, we could use her political power.”

“And if it comes back to bite us?” Daylen asked.

Eamon sighed. “Then we've made a poor judgment.”

“Yeah, like Cailan did,” Daylen replied darkly. “Fine. I'll go. Alistair, we'll take Zevran and Leliana with us.”

“Warden,” Eamon said suddenly. “Do you think it wise to take Alistair with you?”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “I don't think it's wise to go at all, but when things get violent, and Maker knows they will, I want someone skilled in front-line combat nearby.”

“But...why Alistair?” Eamon asked.

“Because between him, Sten, and Oghren, the human will be the least likely to arouse suspicion,” Daylen said. “Are you going to second-guess my other selections as well? Leliana's bard training and Zevran's assassination skills will be ideal for infiltrating the estate. And between Morrigan, Wynne, and myself, I'm the only mage skilled in close combat. Anything else?” The Arl shook his head, and Daylen rounded up the two rogues before they started out across town.

“So what's the real reason you brought me along?” Alistair asked.

“This is almost certainly – no, I'm sorry, this is _definitely_ a trap. If we don't manage to get back out of the trap, I want Eamon to have some incentive to come and get us.”

“So why are we doing this, then?” Leliana asked. “If you know this is a trap for us.”

“My tongue wants to jump out of my mouth for saying this,” Daylen replied sourly, “but Eamon was right. We could use Anora. And even if we can't, we should get her out of there anyway. If she's not open to the idea of working with us, we can at least take that piece off the board. She might not work with us, but she won't be there to support Loghain. Plus, we have the opportunity to eliminate Howe.”

Alistair gave his friend a quizzical look. “Why him?”

Daylen looked to Zevran, whose expression had been stormy since they left the estate. The elf spoke up in clipped tones. “Daylen had me work my way through Denerim, listening for rumors and information. Arl Howe is a monster. The previous Arl's son was little better, but Howe…” Zevran shook his head in distaste. “After the death of Arl Urien at Ostagar and the disappearance of Bann Vaughan, his heir, Howe purged the alienage. Countless elves died, including an entire orphanage full of innocent children.”

“There's a reason the ponce is known as ‘The Butcher of Denerim,’” Daylen concluded. “I think it's high time that he was taken out of action.”

“There is something I would ask, however,” Zevran said. “If we break in, in disguise, can they not simply kill Anora and claim we murdered her?”

“If we don’t go, they can just kill her anyway and say we did it,” Daylen replied. “The only witnesses either way would be people who are already loyal to one side or the other.”

—ROTG—

The Arl of Denerim’s estate was a lovely place.

Or at least, it would be, if it didn’t have a crowd of angry Denerim citizens out in front of it, hollering obscenities and demands.

“For the hundredth time, his lordship isn’t seeing anyone. You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” a tired guard was saying.

“No!” One of the men in front of the crowd hollered. “The Carpenter’s Crafthall has had enough of Howe’s conveniently busy schedule! We will not be put off again!”

“Nor will the stonemasons!” Another man shouted. “It’s been a month since we’ve seen so much as a coin of Howe’s for our work!”

“His lordship is much engaged with the regent,” the guard replied. “He will hear your complaints as soon as he has the time.”

“And when will that be?” another man called. “At the dawn of the next age? Our people have families to feed, they can’t wait forever on the teyrn’s whim!”

The group snuck around the side of the mansion, hiding behind a wagon where Daylen spotted Erlina. “The servant’s entrance is on the other side of the house,” she explained. “We must slip past this crowd to reach it. We will have to be very careful. Arl Howe is inside.”

“These people seem mighty upset,” Daylen said, jerking a thumb at the crowd.

“The estate is in poor repair,” Erlina replied. “The new arl, he has not been very prompt in paying his workmen.”

The group crept through the garden, slinking along underneath a balcony a guard was leaning against. “I can distract the guards,” Erlina said as they peeked around a corner, spotting two bored guards at the servant’s entrance. “The two at the door know who is allowed to come and go. They will not be fooled by your disguises, but inside, you will go unnoticed. But you must move quickly.”

“I hope we can,” Daylen said, tugging at the stolen armor he was wearing. “This thing is riding up something fierce. We’ve got as much of our regular equipment as we dared to bring.”

“I will lure them into the courtyard,” she whispered as the others hid in a convenient pack of bushes.

Daylen watched as Erlina ran up to the guards, hollering about darkspawn in the garden. As the two guards went by, Daylen nodded to his companions, the quartet hurrying through the door and inside. “All right,” Alistair said. “Now what?”

“Now we find the queen, find the exit, and get out of here before somebody realizes Zevran’s got pointed ears,” Daylen replied. “And if possible, we kill Howe on the way. There’s no point in leaving him alive if we can kill him.”

“Ah, it took me forever to be rid of those two,” Erlina hissed, slipping through the door. “You must be careful now. The servants, they will not look closely at anyone in uniform. And most of the guards are new. But you should not draw attention to yourself.”

“Where’s Anora?” Daylen asked.

“She is in a guest room off the main hall. Andraste guide us. We must be cautious here. My lady’s life depends on it.”

“Remember, we belong here,” Leliana said quietly as they passed through the kitchen. “Be casual. Just doing our jobs.”

The group walked through the house, Daylen nodding casually to real guards as they passed by. Erlina led them through the estate, stopping at a door that was, as she had said, just off the main hall. “The Grey Warden is here, my lady,” Erlina said, talking to the closed door.

A voice came back through. “Thank the Maker! I would greet you properly, but I’m afraid we’ve had a setback.”

“What a shock,” Daylen said dryly.

“My ‘host’ was not content with leaving me under heavy guard,” the voice explained. “He’s sealed the door by magic.”

“And why didn’t you mention this before?” Daylen asked, looking at Erlina.

“I did not know!” She insisted. “There were only guards here when I left.”

“In the last hour or so he decided to increase the security? And Howe just let you go?” Daylen pressed. “So instead of the nice, easy rescue operation we had planned, we have to kill Howe's mage in order to release her. And of course, that mage will be right next to Howe himself, so we'll have to kill him as well." Daylen laughed. "So what's next on the script? After we kill Howe, will it turn out to have been cast by a couple of Anora's other political enemies, and we'll have to pop over and kill them too?"

“Find the mage who cast the spell,” the voice insisted. “He’ll most likely be at Howe’s side.”

Daylen rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no. Alistair?”

“You’ll want to back up a touch,” the warrior warned. Daylen obligingly backed up out of range, and Alistair focused, cleansing the magic. The spell snapped and fizzled out.

Unfortunately, that was the moment a guard decided to walk by on patrol. “What are you lot doing here?” He demanded, moments before Daylen froze his mouth shut and Zevran stabbed him.

“And now we have a body to dispose of,” the elf groaned, catching the body before it could crumple to the floor. “Such a hassle.”

Daylen took the dead guard from Zevran, hoisting the corpse over his shoulders. "That cabinet," he grunted, jerking his head at the piece of furniture. "We'll be gone before he starts to stink." Alistair tugged at the door, frowning at the resistance, before yanking harder. The cabinet opened, and a corpse fell out, landing on the startled warrior.

Everyone stared at the body for a long moment. "Well then," Zevran finally broke the silence. "That's an interesting development."

"There's somebody else sneaking around killing guards," Daylen commented, shifting the dead weight on his shoulders. "Alistair, you put that back where you found it. Zevran, let's find another place to hide this body.”

“There’s more you need to know!” the voice interrupted. “Howe mentioned having a Grey Warden in the dungeon. You could rescue him!”

Alistair perked up. “Another Grey Warden? Here?”

Daylen sighed. “We’d better check it out. Queen Anora, if that’s really you in there…don’t run off."

“I imagine that is intended as humor?”

They found another pair of bodies hidden in other cabinets, and a fourth corpse stuffed under a bed. The corpse across Daylen’s shoulders was getting heavier when they found who was producing the bodies.

“Nobody can see us,” a guard was saying to a maid, neither of them noticing Daylen coming in with the body he intended to hide. “They’re all at dinner.”

“In that case, come here!” the maid whispered. The guard chuckled, and a knife flashed. The man stiffened as the knife sank into his chest, up under his armpit. The woman held him as he collapsed, an ugly snarl on her face. When the guard stilled, she ripped the blade free, before noticing Daylen and the others standing there, Daylen still holding the body.

“Well, this is awkward,” Daylen finally said.

The maid’s eyes flicked between Daylen, the body across his shoulders, the body on the floor in front of her, and the bloody knife in her own hand. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe I didn’t do it?”

“I was going to say the same thing,” Daylen said. “You mind if I set this down?”

“By all means,” the maid replied. “I imagine you’re not on the payroll here.”

“Grey Warden, here to rescue the Queen,” Daylen explained. “You?”

“Here to kill Howe,” the woman said. “My name is Elissa Cousland.”

—ROTG—

_Geography of Thedas  
Thedas is bounded to the east by the Amaranthine Ocean, to the west by Tirashan Forest and the Hunterhorn Mountains, to the south by the snowy wastes that lie beyond the Orkney Mountains, and to the north by Donark Forest._

_The word "Thedas" is Tevinter in origin, originally used to refer to lands that bordered the Imperium. As the Imperium lost its stranglehold on conquered nations, more and more lands became Thedas, until finally people applied the name to the entire continent._

_The northern part of Thedas is divided amongst the Anderfels, the Tevinter Imperium, Antiva, and Rivain, with the islands held by the Qunari just off the coast. Central Thedas consists of the Free Marches, Nevarra, and Orlais, with Ferelden to the south._

_What lies beyond the snowy wastes is a mystery. The freezing temperatures and barren land have kept even the most intrepid cartographers at bay. Similarly, the western reaches of the Anderfels have never been fully explored, even by the Anders themselves. We do not know if the dry steppes are shadowed by mountains, or if they extend all the way to a nameless sea._

_There must be other lands, continents or islands, perhaps across the Amaranthine or north of Par Vollen, for the Qunari arrived in Thedas from somewhere, but beyond that deduction, we know nothing._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> Always confused me how you couldn't ask Avernus anything about being a Warden. I suppose if he had just joined recently before everything hit the fan he might not know about the sacrifice, but it still doesn't make sense. I realize that finding out a few hours into the game might spoil the emotional pacing of the game, but still.
> 
> 1Troy. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Army of Darkness. [ return to text ]


	30. Political Maneuvers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the arrival of an unexpected character, matters at the Arl of Denerim's estate continue to complicate themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017.

_On the city of Denerim  
When anyone in Ferelden speaks of “going to the city,” they inevitably mean Denerim. There is no other place in the kingdom which rivals it: Not in size, population, wealth, or importance. It is the seat of the Theirin family, the capital of Ferelden, the largest seaport, and, by ancient tradition, the meeting place of the Landsmeet._

_As well, Denerim was the birthplace of Andraste. One of them, anyway, as several other sites claim to have been the prophet's early home, including Jader, in Orlais. The Chantry takes no stance on which site's claim is valid, but it is well known that Andraste was Fereldan by birth. When visiting the pilgrimage site in Denerim, it is inadvisable to mention Jader at all._

_The city rests at the foot of the Dragon's Peak, a solitary mountain scarred by ancient lava flows. During Andraste's lifetime, it reputedly filled the sky with a great column of black ash and sent burning rock raining down as far away as the Free Marches, but it is now considered extinct. Some believe it merely sleeps, and will again darken the sky with ash and fire when the last Fereldan king dies, but this is highly unlikely._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

—ROTG—

“Elissa Cousland?” Daylen asked. “Cousland? The same Couslands that were apparently slaughtered in a riot in Highever but everyone believes it was Howe’s men?”

“The very same,” Elissa said. “I carved my way out of Highever and I’ve been on the run ever since. I’m here to put a few new holes in Rendon Howe.”

Daylen shrugged. “Works for me. We’re headed that way anyway, I hear there’s a Grey Warden in the dungeon. Walk with us.”

“Wait,” Elissa said, reaching down and unbuckling the dead man’s sword belt. “Here. I need a weapon besides my dagger, but if I carry it, we’ll be spotted.” Daylen carried the belt, glancing down the hall.

“All right, let’s go.”

“So do you Wardens have names?”

“I’m Daylen, that’s Alistair,” the Warden hissed, gesturing at his friend. “The elf is Zevran. The redhead is Leliana. Alistair and I are the only Wardens. The rest are just lunatics we picked up along the way.”

“I was a Chantry sister,” Leliana said.

“And I tried to kill them,” Zevran added.

“You sound like lovely people,” Elissa replied, looking Leliana up and down. “Where are you from?”

“Ferelden, but I was raised in Orlais.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I said, Orlais,” Leliana repeated.

“Oh, I heard you, I'm just sorry,” Elissa replied. Daylen, still looking around the corner, grinned.

“All right, all clear. Let’s move.” They moved down the hall, entering Howe’s bedroom with weapon’s drawn.

“Dungeons are down that way,” Elissa said. “I’ve been here before.”

“This is Howe's _bedchamber_?” Daylen asked. “And the entrance to the dungeons is right here in his room. Charming fellow.” He tapped Zevran on the arm and nodded at a chest, the elf picking the lock and pulling out a bundle of documents with a Grey Warden seal on them. “These look important,” Daylen said. “They’re encrypted, or in gibberish.”

Leliana whistled quietly, nodding her head at the door. “All clear. Let’s go.”

As they entered the dungeon, a guard came around the corner, pausing in front of a cell door. “What? Who goes there?” He jerked back as the prisoner in the cell grabbed him by the collar. The prisoner slammed the guard’s head into the metal bars, wrapping an arm around his neck and choking him into unconsciousness. The prisoner held the chokehold for several seconds longer, before letting the dead man drop to the ground.

“Boy, this place is just chock full of murderers, isn’t it,” Daylen said as the prisoner retrieved a key from the dead guard’s belt and unlocked his cell, dragging the dead man in.

The group cautiously watched as the prisoner stepped out a few moments later, dressed in the guard’s armor. A wiry fellow, he had long hair in a ponytail and a rough beard on his face. “I thank you for creating such distraction, stranger,” he said. “I have been waiting days for the opportunity. Do you think you could – Alistair? Is that you?”

“Who?” Alistair peered closer at the man. “Wait, I do know you. You were at my Joining.”

“He’s a Warden?” Daylen asked.

“Yeah, he’s one of us,” Alistair confirmed. “A Warden from Orlais. Jader, I think. Or was it Montsimmard? I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.”

“I am Riordan, senior Warden of Jader, but born and bred in Highever and glad to be home.”

“Why are you here?”

“When we received no word from King Cailan, I was sent alone from Orlais. The king had invited all the Wardens of Orlais and their support troops to join him, and then…nothing. We had two hundred Wardens and two dozen divisions of cavalry ready to join the fight, only to be turned back at the border by Loghain’s edict. That was when the rumor reached us that Wardens were being blamed for the massacre. As a native Fereldan, I volunteered to cross the border alone and find out what the situation was.”

“And Howe captured you?”

“With an offer of hospitality and a poisoned chalice, yes. I was foolish enough to think Loghain didn’t yet know who I was.”

Daylen fished out the documents they had found. “These your papers?”

“Yes, these are my records,” Riordan said, accepting them back. “Documents seized from the Warden compound in Denerim – roll lists, the state of the Fereldan Wardens' finances, our equipment, other codes, cache locations.”

“Roll lists?” Daylen asked. “As in who was in the Wardens?”

“Along with possible recruits,” Riordan confirmed. “Anything I could find of Duncan’s own recruitment records.”

“I told you they'd be remembered,” Daylen declared, sharing a grin with Alistair. “Every last one of them.”

“There is more, as well. Copies of the Joining ritual I rescued from our vault in Denerim. Those should never be seen by any outside eyes, but I trust in their encryption.”

“Can you induct other Grey Wardens?” Daylen asked.

“Would that I could, for Ferelden sorely needs them,” Riordan said. “But for the Joining to work, the recruit not only needs fresh darkspawn blood, but a drop of blood preserved from an Archdemon. Ferelden’s supply should have been in the vault, but it was gone. I can only imagine someone took it out and Loghain either confiscated or destroyed it.”

“The Archdemon isn't going to wait around. Are we truly on our own?”

“The other Wardens won’t risk their strength fighting Ferelden’s civil war,” Riordan said. “If they spend themselves against Loghain, there is truly no hope. They recall accounts of the First Blight, how many cities fell. If Ferelden is too foolish to save itself, at least we’ll be ready when the Archdemon leads its forces further.”

“So it’s up to us,” Daylen spat. “How typical.”

“If the edict can be lifted, I will send a message as soon as we are gone from this place.”

“Can you make it out on your own?” Daylen asked. “We’ve been staying at Arl Eamon’s estate, but you don’t look to be in the shape to fight.”

“At Arl Eamon’s, then. Howe is deeper in the dungeons, and he may still be there. Good luck, brother.” Riordan headed out the door.

The door led down a set of stairs, and Daylen paused. “All right. I doubt that we’re going to make it much farther with these disguises, but let’s see what we can do.”

There was a pack of guards waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “Who goes?” the leader demanded.

Daylen decided to try to bluff. “Oh, quit kidding around, you know me.”

“Anyone tries to come in here without Howe’s say so, we get to do with what we like with ‘em,” the guard replied. “I think we finally got a bit of entertainment here, lads?”

“All right, murder time,” Daylen said, hosing most of the room down with a wave of ice. Alistair and Zevran barreled forward, blades flashing. Elissa hung back, watching as the Warden’s party took the guards to pieces. As the last man hit the ground, Daylen whistled to his companions. “No point in continuing the ruse. Ditch the uniforms.”

Zevran and Leliana unbuckled the stolen armor, their leathers concealed underneath. Daylen’s robes were folded up and stuffed into the back of his cuirass, and a few moments later the Warden was donning his robes as Elissa was stripping off the maid’s uniform. Underneath, she had on weathered leathers, a pair of gauntlets dangling from her belt. She tugged the gauntlets into place, buckling on the sword belt Daylen had been carrying for her. “I’ve been waiting a year for this.”

More guards waited ahead, only to be ripped to pieces by the Wardens, their companions, and their newest ally. The dungeon was a horror show – corpses hanging from the ceilings were left as a display to those being actively tortured, and the head torturer had a heavy maul that was splattered in blood when Elissa ripped it out of his hand and gutted him.

Daylen was using frost magic to quench the flames consuming the corpse of a man he’d set on fire when a voice sounded from deeper in the chamber. “Don’t leave me here! Get me out of here!” A pause. “That’s an order!”

There was a young man, blond and fairly well-built, strapped to the rack. “Hang on, I’ll get you out of there,” Daylen said. He found the release on the machine and unstrapped the prisoner, who sat up and glared at him. 

 ”Was this supposed to be a lesson?” he demanded. “Did my father think it funny to leave me so long before sending you?”

“Unless your father’s Arl Eamon, he didn’t send me.”

“You move in august company, stranger,” the prisoner replied. “I am Oswyn, son of Bann Sighard, of the Dragon’s Peak Bannorn.”

“Oswyn?” Elissa said. “Goodness, I hardly recognized you.”

Oswyn peered closer at her. “Elissa? Maker, I thought you dead.”

“I nearly was,” Elissa replied darkly. “Howe’s men butchered my family. Fergus died at Ostagar. I’m all that’s left. And I’m here for Howe’s heart.”

“If you aren’t one of our soldiers, pray tell me, who should I be thanking for my rescue?” Oswyn asked.

“My name is Daylen Amell. I’m a Grey Warden.”

“Then I have no question about why you would come, Warden, for it is your brothers and sisters who have suffered the most here.”

“Sisters?” Daylen echoed. “There’s another Warden here?”

“An elf,” Oswyn said. “She was on the next rack for a time. Probably back in a cell now. They…have not been gentle with her.” Daylen growled. “You have my heartfelt gratitude and I assume the gratitude of the entire Dragon’s Peak Bannorn.”

“Can you walk?” Daylen asked.

“I’m not sure,” Oswyn replied. Daylen sent a bolus of healing magic into the man’s legs, bones crunching back into place. The man gasped in pain, slumping to one side on the rack. “Oh, sweet Andraste, that feels better. If my father sent no one after me, I can only assume that he does not yet know the true colors of the snakes he has allied with. But if you talk to him, I’m certain he would offer you any reward you might ask.”

“Why was Howe torturing you?”

“One soldier returning from Ostagar was my wet nurse’s son,” Oswyn explained. “We have been friends since birth. He told me his unit was ordered to turn their backs on Cailan, _before_ the darkspawn overwhelmed him. The next day, he disappeared. When I went to search for him, I accepted a drink from a stranger and ended up here.”

“Will your father side against Loghain at the Landsmeet?” Daylen asked.

“Then there _is_ a Landsmeet, after all?” Oswyn said. “Howe said the Arl of Redcliffe was dead, and the Landsmeet called off.”

“He’s lying out his arse,” Daylen replied bluntly. “Eamon lives, the Landsmeet is very much on.”

“I swear, if there is any forum to speak out against Loghain, my father will be there.”

“It’s not perfect, but it should be enough to get you out of here,” Daylen said. “We left some guard-issue armor at the exit. Use it.”

Deeper in the dungeon, they found a severely traumatized soldier who had been marked as missing in action at Orzammar. And in the next cell, there was a naked and bloody elf. “Piss off,” she snapped. “Thought you lot had realized I wasn’t going to talk. Just kill me.”

“We’re not here to torture you,” Daylen said. “We’re here to get you out.”

 “Who are you people?” The elf asked, before pointing at Daylen. “You!”

“Have we met?”

“Tamarel. The elf from Lothering. I'm a Warden.”

Daylen stared at her in confusion for a moment longer before his eyes widened. “Tamarel! Now I remember you!”

“There was another Warden you knew was alive and you didn't tell me?” Alistair asked.

“I'd completely forgotten about her,” Daylen admitted. “Had a lot on my mind at the time. Zevran, get her out of there.” The door swung open a few moments later, and Daylen stepped into the cell. “What did they do to you?”

“Torture,” Tamarel replied. “A lot of it. They got me at the Denerim compound. They wanted me to decrypt some papers, but I told them nothing. They told me Duncan and the Wardens were dead. Are there any others?”

“We found an Orlesian Warden upstairs, Riordan,” Daylen explained. “Beyond that? It’s pretty much just the three of us.” Daylen knelt next to the naked elf, scowling as he took stock of her injuries. “Howe's men did all this?” The elf nodded, and Daylen's face darkened. “Alistair, when we get out of here remind me to kill every last one of those tossers.” Azure light flared around his hands, and Daylen worked quickly, healing the elf's broken legs. “Is there anyone else?”

“Yes,” Tamarel said softly. “Other people have been brought in, dragged here by Howe’s men. I think one was an Arl’s son.”

“We met him,” Daylen replied. “Anyone else?”

“Not that I’ve seen, but I would look around,” Tamarel said, standing slowly. “They didn’t exactly give me the tour.”

Daylen drew the dagger he had sheathed at his waist. “Here. There’s a maid outfit at the entrance to the dungeon. It should get you out the door. Head to Arl Eamon’s estate and say you’re a Warden. Tell Eamon that I sent you.”

“See you there.”

In a separate room, they found another elf, the young man thin and pale. He looked up at them blearily. “What month is it? Are you some enemy of Arl Urien’s? Please…I feel like I’ve spent half my life down here.”

“Why were you imprisoned here?”

“The Arl’s son,” the elf said. “He abducted my bride on our wedding day. When I tried to rescue her…” he paused. “I don’t remember. She was screaming, and he was laughing, and I charged at him…and I woke up here. I don’t know if she’s even still alive.”

“Arl Urien died months ago,” Daylen explained. “Was this during the elven rebellion?”

“Dead? Then who’s ruling, his son Vaughan? He struck me down, and I woke up here. People were so angry. They were thinking of petitioning the king…”

“The king is dead as well,” Daylen went on. “Loghain rules in his place. Make a break for it. There’s a guard outfit at the entrance to the dungeon. Keep your helmet on and your head down.”

“I thank you for your aid, stranger,” the elf rasped. “I wish I had more than gratitude to offer.”

The dungeon looped around, coming back to a single remaining door and a locked gate. “Howe has to be down here someplace,” Daylen said. “Everyone ready?”

Howe was waiting on the other side of the door. “Well, well, the Grey Warden. I must say I’m surprised Eamon would condone you invading my castle. It seems you've eluded my men,” Howe said.

Daylen shrugged. “Sure, let's go with that.”

“Oh, Maker, they're all dead, aren't they,” Howe's lieutenant said.[1]

“Whoever replaces you is going to have one big mess to clean up,” Daylen said cheerfully.

“More like a lot of little messes, really,” Elissa added.

“ _You_ ,” Howe hissed. “Bryce Cousland's little spitfire, all grown up, and still trying to fit into daddy's armor.”

“You're the only worthless shite trying to follow his father, _Rendon_ ,” Elissa shot back. “Mine taught me to be my own woman. Yours taught you to bite down on a strap and take it like a dockside whore.”

The man only partially hid his flinch. “I never thought you'd be fool enough to turn up here. But then I never thought you'd live, either.”

“Your best efforts never are good enough, are they, Howe?” Elissa taunted. “You missed a Cousland. Can't even betray people properly, can you?” Her angry expression slackened slightly as the need for understanding came forth. “And for _what_? A title? Wealth? Power? My family was good to you!”

“Your family were _traitors_!” Howe roared. “Trips to Orlais, gifts from old enemies – I know the signs of collusion! All while I sank in obscurity!”

“It's called _diplomacy_ , you prick!” The men behind Howe tensed, and Daylen glanced to his companions.

“Your family squandered glory that was rightfully mine!” Howe declared. “Your parents died on their knees. Your brother's corpse rots in Ostagar, and his brat was burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife.” Elissa swallowed hard, and Daylen could hear her teeth grinding from several feet away. “How suitable that their deaths should raise me to the ear of a king.”

“He's not king yet,” Daylen interjected.

“And even if he gets the job,” Elissa added, “ _you'll_ never see it.”

“If you think you can take this from me, that I will _allow_ it, you are very much mistaken! What's left of the Couslands? A fool daughter trying to reclaim the lost glory of a dead family of traitors?”

Elissa hung her head, the ends of her weapons dropping slightly. “Elissa,” Daylen said quietly.

The rogue raised her head, her eyes steely. “You really are a mouthy one, Howe. I would have thought your father would have beaten that out of you. But no more. You can't lie anymore, your rat _bastard_. Your time's up.”

“There it is, right there,” Howe pronounced. “That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back. It seems you have made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud.” Howe's glare deepened. “I, on the other hand, want you dead more than ever.”

“You're welcome to try,” Elissa challenged, bringing her blades up. “Let's go.”

 And all hell broke loose. The two nobles engaged, blades flashing as they struck and parried back and forth, each looking for an opening. A dozen guards engaged the Warden’s party, Leliana dropping her bow and pulling a pair of daggers as Daylen knocked one guard flat on his back with a lump of conjured stone.

The battle was frantic, confined in close quarters with barely enough room to swing a sword or dodge a blow. Alistair dipped low, carving open a guard’s thigh as he caught the man’s axe blow on his shield.

Leliana and Zevran had accounted for five guards between them, Alistair busily dueling two more as Daylen heard boots approaching behind them and turned to engage.

Elissa parried a blow from Howe’s axe and hissed as her leathers barely turned aside a stab from the man’s dagger. She snarled, ignoring the pain, and swept her dagger up, weaving it around into the man’s forearm. The blade gashed open Howe’s arm, but the man cut loose with a reflexive kick, a quick blow that staggered Elissa back before her attack could do real damage. The axe swept down again, and Elissa sidestepped around the blow, bringing her knife up again and jamming it into a gap in Howe’s leathers, the blade biting into his underarm.

Howe brought the axe around, faster than a man his age should have been able to, and Elissa ducked and slid down, pulling the bloody dagger away before she could cut deep enough to hit an artery.

The axe hit one of the stone columns supporting the room’s ceiling with enough force to send shards of stone flying away, and Elissa dropped further, kicking Howe in the shins and backpedaling to open some distance.

The match was hardly even – Howe was taller, heavier, and had a good twenty years of experience on Elissa, but it had been years since Howe had fought a serious opponent, and Elissa had been kicking and clawing her way through Denerim’s underbelly for months. Howe was well-fed and rested, while Elissa had been surviving on scraps of food and sleeping wherever she could.

There were screams echoing down the hallway as Daylen hosed down the approaching guards with fire, nervously glancing over his shoulder as Leliana ripped a man’s kidneys into pieces with a twist of her daggers. Zevran was busily fighting another guard as Alistair stunned Howe’s lieutenant with a strike from his shield and thrust forward with his sword, the guard narrowly dodging the blow.

Elissa’s sword went skidding away across the floor as Howe’s axe knocked it from her hand, and she kicked him in the crotch, the man grunting in pain as she knocked his axe away. Down to one weapon each, the two rogues moved more carefully, jabbing and thrusting at each other with their daggers.

“You’re going to die here,” Howe snarled. “How does it feel to know that?”

Elissa’s dagger whirled, and three of Howe’s fingers thumped to the floor alongside his dagger. Her blade sank into his gut and up under the ribs, twisting violently. “I don’t know,” she hissed. “How does it feel?”

Howe coughed, blood flecking his lips and spattering on Elissa’s face. “Maker spit on you,” he spat. “I deserved more.”

“Fine, then,” Elissa replied, ripping the blade free and stabbing him again. “Here’s some more.”

Alistair parried a strike from the last guard as Zevran’s blade sank into the man’s back, and Daylen emerged from the hallway, his face smudged with soot and blood.

Elissa was kneeling over Howe’s body, panting heavily. “That was my family, you son of a bitch,” she growled. “May your soul never find peace for what you did.”

“Elissa,” Alistair said quietly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m pretty fucking far from all right,” Elissa replied, standing up and kicking Howe’s corpse.

Alistair watched her, before looking to Daylen. “What now?”

“What now?” Elissa echoed. “Let me tell you what now!”[2]

“Uh, I was talking to him,” Alistair said. “No offense, Lady Cousland, but I follow him.”

Elissa paused a second, before nodding grimly. “Very well. What do we do, Warden?”

“You’ve accomplished your objective,” Daylen said. “We need to accomplish ours. I’d say the alarm is fairly raised by now. We’re going to secure the Queen, carve out way out of here. Spread out, find a way back upstairs.”

It only took a few minutes – there wasn’t much left of the dungeon that they hadn’t already cleared. Alistair called Daylen over, finding two men in separate cells. One snarled as they passed by, but the other was kneeling, his head bent in prayer. “Maker have mercy on Your faithful servant,” he said softly. “Grant me a place at Your side. Grant me the cleansing flames. Andraste, Bride of the Maker, have mercy on me.” He looked up, spotting Elissa. “Alfstanna? Is that you, little sister?” He looked closer. “No, I don’t know you…do I? Are you real?”

“Are you all right?” Daylen asked.

“Alfstanna? I don’t know. Where is my sister? Have you seen her?”

Alistair had been staring at the man. “Report, Templar.”

The prisoner stiffened. “I…I’m Irminric, knight-lieutenant of the Denerim chantry. You…aren’t one of the teyrn’s men?”

“He’s in lyrium withdrawal,” Alistair explained to Daylen. “He’s got all the symptoms – confusion, weepiness. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s saying. And if the grand cleric knew he was down here, she’d be spitting hot coals. Nobles don’t have authority over Templars.”

“I…I failed in my duties,” Irminric reported, clearly dazed. “Maker, forgive me. I failed, and there’s no telling what he’s done?”

“Who are you talking about?” Daylen pressed.

“The maleficar,” Irminric whispered. “He had turned blood magic upon Templars and Circle mages to escape from his tower. Near Redcliffe, I cornered him, but the teyrn’s men took him from me and brought me here.”

“This maleficar,” Daylen asked uncomfortably. “Was his name Jowan?”

“Yes,” Irminric hissed in recognition. “He destroyed his phylactery. We were spread out, trying to find him. I was alone. I…you are real, aren’t you? My dreams are so strange now. Please, if you’re not a dream, help me.”

“How can I help?” Daylen offered.

The man handed over a ring. “Give this ring to my sister, Alfstanna. Tell her…tell her I’m sorry. Please. Ask her to pray for me.”

“Unlock the door,” Daylen said to Leliana, moving to the other cell. “And who are you?”

“You can’t do this to me,” the other prisoner snarled. “I’ll have you all flayed! I’m the arl of Denerim!”

“And I’m the king of Antiva,” Daylen replied. “Arl Urien died at Ostagar. Who are you?”

“I’m Vaughan Kendells, heir to the arling of Denerim. It’s true!”

“So what are you doing in here?” Daylen asked. “Slumming?”

“Too many of our troops were lost at Ostagar. When the riots started, Howe came with men to reinforce the garrison here. Or that’s what he claimed. As soon as I let him into the palace, he threw me in here. ‘One more victim of the elven uprising,’ he said. Let me out of here, and I’ll do anything!”

“So you’re the arl’s son that elf mentioned,” Daylen realized.

“In my room upstairs, there’s a lockbox full of sovereigns,” Vaughan said. “Free me, and the key is yours.”

“You expect me to believe that they let you keep the key?” Daylen asked skeptically.

“It’s right here,” Vaughan snapped, holding it out. “Now get me out of here!”

“Tell me, did you really break up a wedding? Abduct the bridal party?”

Vaughan scoffed. “Oh, please. They might have dressed up their pets and had a tea party, but that wasn’t a proper wedding. We grabbed a few whores and had some fun. They’re just knife-ears.” He gurgled as Daylen grabbed him by the neck through the bars, ripping the key out of his hand and tucking it away. The Warden yanked him forward, bashing Vaughan’s face against the bars and breaking his nose. “Denerim is better off without you,” he spat, unsheathing the dagger at his belt.

“No, no, please-” Vaughan coughed as the dagger sank into his lung.

Daylen twisted the blade, before leaving the body in the cell. “Let’s get out of here.”

As they reached the ground floor, guards streamed into the hallway, the captain hollering a warning. “Oh, here we go,” Alistair groaned.

“We don’t have _time_ for this,” Daylen hissed, slamming the butt of his staff into the ground. A wave of frost spread along the floor, icicles erupting upwards from the sheet of ice and impaling the guards.

“Andraste’s arse, what the _fuck_?” Elissa exploded, staggering back. “What…what… _what was that_?”

“A spell I’m thinking I should use more often,” Daylen growled. “Let’s go.”

They made their way back, pausing only long enough to retrieve a hefty bag of gold from Vaughan’s room. The door to Anora’s chamber was open, and Erlina waiting outside. “This the part where we find out Anora was never here?” Daylen asked.

A lady stepped out, dressed in a guard’s uniform. “My thanks,” she said.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Daylen asked. “If you are really Anora. Still not convinced.”

“There are two sorts of people in this house,” Anora replied haughtily. “Those loyal to Howe, and those loyal to me.” Daylen resisted the urge to say that he had no loyalty to either party. “If Howe’s people find me, I’ll be killed. And my people will insist on escorting me back to the palace…where my father may _also_ have me killed.”

“Or they could just listen to their queen, considering they work for you,” Daylen said bluntly.

“Daylen,” Zevran warned, emerging from the shadows. “There are a great deal of guards in the front room. They appear to be waiting for something.”

“How many?”

“Too many,” Zevran replied. “Loghain’s lieutenant is leading them. But there is always another option, no?”

Daylen shook his head. “Clearly an alarm has been raised. Alistair, you’re with me. We’re going out there. The rest of you are going to leave quietly, out the back way.”

“Why us?” Alistair asked.

“Because we’re the only two they can identify, because we need to buy time for them to get clear, and because they’ll want us alive,” Daylen explained. “Otherwise, they’ll never know where Anora is. After all, we couldn’t  _possibly_ be so stupid as to have her stay at the estate of our staunchest noble supporter.”

“Hiding in plain sight?” Leliana asked skeptically. “You realize that only works when your enemies are blind?”

Daylen shrugged. “They didn’t notice us walking around Denerim killing thugs, picking pockets, having back-alley duels and generally wrecking their shite. I’d say that’s pretty blind. Now  _go_.”

“You sure they won’t just kill us?”

Daylen grimaced. “About as sure as I was about fighting a demon one-on-one in the Fade.”

“That’s reassuring,” Alistair muttered.

Daylen shrugged in response. “Elissa, if we don't come back...talk to Riordan, to Eamon, and to Tamarel. They can fill you in on what needs to be done.”

As the others cleared out down the hall, Daylen looked to Alistair. “You ready?”

“No, but let’s do it anyway,” Alistair sighed.

Daylen stepped out around the corner, spotting Cauthrien waiting for them. “Warden!” The woman called as she spotted them. “In the name of the regent, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Rendon Howe and his men-at-arms. Surrender, and you _may_ be shown mercy.”

Daylen glanced around the room, seeing over two dozen men in heavy mail and several archers around the room. “Well, you certainly brought enough men. Cauthrien, you seem an honorable warrior. If I surrender myself to your custody, will you guarantee our safety?”

“You would stand a fair trial,” Cauthrien replied. “I give you my word that if you behave honorably, you will be treated as such.”

“Very well,” Daylen said, dropping his staff. “We’ll stand down. You don’t know the whole story.”

“I’m surprised this ended peacefully,” Cauthrien admitted as Daylen unbuckled his sword belt. “Take them.” Daylen turned to see the hilt of a sword swinging at his face.

—ROTG—

“Eamon!” Anora said as she burst into the noble’s study. “We have a problem.”

“Andraste watch over our friends in danger,” Leliana prayed quietly.

“Calm down,” Eamon urged, standing up. “What has happened?”

“The Wardens have been captured,” Anora said.

Eamon’s eyes bugged out. “What? How could this happen?”

“Never mind that,” Anora replied, waving it off. “The question is how to free him.”

“Surely you mean _them_ , your Highness?” Eamon asked. “We need Alistair, too.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Anora said hurriedly. “Of course I meant Alistair too. I am not sure where they will have been taken.”

“I am,” Morrigan chimed in, leaning against the wall. “I know where they are. The Grey Warden is in possession of a ring that allows me to locate him. Getting to him, however, is quite something else…”

—ROTG—

“So, scum,” Cauthrien asked. “Do you make a habit of kidnapping or killing nobility? Or is that just common amongst Wardens?”

Daylen grinned through bloody teeth. He'd woken up stripped and shackled to a wall as a torturer slugged him in the gut. The place reeked of sweat, smoke, and fear. “Do you make a habit of following regicides and traitors?” He grunted as Cauthrien's fist snapped his head to one side. “Come on! I've seen Dalish children hit harder than that, and they were fighting werewolves!” The next shot slammed his head back against the wall, and his lip split, blood trickling down his chin. “Better, but still weak.” She splashed another helping of magebane in his face, and Daylen coughed, rasping as the poison drained his mana again. “You know, that stuff really burns.”

Cauthrien gave a noise of disgust, before turning to the head torturer. “Teach him some respect. We'll break them for information later. After that, they'll be executed for their crimes against the Crown.”

“I hope it's not too long a wait,” Daylen said. “I have things to do this week.”

“Throw him in the cell with the other one once you're done,” Cauthrien ordered.

“Don't be a stranger!” Daylen called as the soldier left, before eyeing the torturer with none of the bravado he had before. “Oh, dear. Now, look, mate, there's no need to-” a fist sank into his unprotected gut again, and Daylen wheezed, hanging from the cuffs as the wind was knocked out of him. He coughed hard, only for a pair of tongs to jab a heated lump of metal into his side before he could sit up straight.

The screams were audible in the nearby dungeon, and Alistair glared at the guard, trying to push his fingers back into place.

Daylen sagged, panting and shaking his head as the guard reheated the bar. “Maker's balls, don't you know how much that hurts?” The torturer didn't respond, turning the bar in the fire to get an even heat, and Daylen shook his head, feeling a trickle of mana returning. The torturer jammed the red-hot bar into his thigh this time, and Daylen let the scream loose, feeding off the pain as he felt more mana surging inside his mind.

 _Not yet,_  he thought.  _I need more than one spell, and I don't have enough yet_.

The wounds were throbbing, and Daylen felt more blood trickling into his mouth from his split lip. As the bar was reheated, Daylen called upon the magic he had learned at Soldier's Peak.

The torturer was bringing the reheated bar near Daylen's face as Daylen spat the mana-charged blood, the crimson spray catching the torturer in the face. He dropped the bar as the blood began eating into his flesh, and he clutched at his skin, screaming as the magic burned his face. Daylen let a burst of fire magic flood the manacles, screaming as the heat seared his flesh, then hit the metal with frost, the metal shattering under the sudden temperature change. Metal slivers bit into his wrists, and the Warden fell to the floor, sobbing in pain as the torturer continued screaming, rolling about on the floor.

Daylen grabbed the fallen torturer by the neck and focused, channeling raw lightning into the man's throat. The torturer's flesh sizzled under the assault, and Daylen held the spell until the body began to smoke, before dropping the corpse. Feeling his ribs aching, Daylen staggered over to a table full of torture implements, picking up a long, weighted rod. He made it halfway through an experimental swing before lurching to one side, his ribs protesting the movement. Daylen grunted in pain, fusing his ribs together with a burst of healing magic, gingerly working his shoulder and nodding in satisfaction.

“Should hold for now,” he muttered, slumping against the table and waiting for more of his mana to come back before quickly healing the injuries on his wrists. Opening the door, he spotted a guard patrolling down the hall, walking away. Padding forward, he got as close as he could before swinging the rod, catching the guard at the base of the skull and knocking him forward. Daylen hit the dazed guard with a sleeping spell and kept moving down the hall, finding the cells.

Alistair spotted the half-naked and bloody Warden and grinned, before jerking his head at the single inept guard they had been left with. Daylen nodded, before whistling sharply. As the guard turned, Daylen conjured a lump of stone, sending it flying into the guard's face and knocking him across the room.

“How'd you get loose?”

“Magic,” Daylen grunted, grabbing the lock on the cell door and freezing it solid. Wrenching at the door, the weakened metal squealed and fractured, and the door swung open. “Let's get out of here.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” Alistair asked.

“Well, we might be able to pass for guards, but that'd be tricky. Neither one of us knows this place. I don't know about you, but I was still dazed when they dragged us in here.”

“Me too, unfortunately,” Alistair said.

Daylen grunted, pumping another burst of healing magic into his side and fixing the injury properly. “The other option is fighting the entire fortress on our way out.”

“Oh good,” Alistair commented lightly. “For a moment there I thought this was getting easy.”

“Do you know where our stuff is?” Daylen asked.

“In here,” Alistair said, pulling open a chest. “They just stashed it. Didn’t confiscate any of it from what I saw.” The two quickly dressed, pulling their equipment back on.

“I’ve never seen a prison from this side before,” Daylen commented, sliding the ring Morrigan had given him back on. “Very scenic.”

Alistair laughed. “Join the Grey Wardens! See the sights from the floors of the best prisons in the land! Not much of a recruitment slogan, is it?”

“The others are coming, I’d bet,” Daylen replied. “But I’d rather just get out of here.”

“I hope you have a plan,” Alistair said, buckling on his sword.

“There has to be an armory around here,” Daylen explained. “We steal some uniforms, pretend we’re guards, and just walk out the front door.”

“You know, there’s something about being trapped in a fortress full of people who want me dead that makes me think that maybe being a Templar might not have been so bad,” Alistair whispered as they crept down the hall.

Sure enough, they found a set of guard uniforms on an armor stand in a side room. In the next room, they found a guard grumbling as he worked. “Maker’s breath, I should have been made a corporal by now. You never see them stuck polishing the rust off the armor.” Daylen turned to leave, but the man looked up and spotted them. “Hey, are you relieving me? It’s about time.”

“Sure am,” Daylen lied. “Sorry about the delay.”

“Good. Mind the blighted chainmail. The commander will skin us both if he finds any rust.” He strode off, and Daylen shared a relieved glance with Alistair before the two left.

The next room just contained more trouble. “Ah!” The guard captain said as Daylen opened the door. “You must be the new recruits we were expecting. You’re late. The rest of your patrol is in the storage room. Find them, and get yourselves ready for inspection.”

“Yes, ser,” Alistair replied automatically.

The two ‘recruits’ found the rest of their patrol in the storage room, discussing the security measures in place around the fort. “Oi, I was told we were supposed to get ready for inspection,” Daylen called. “You ready?”

“There’s a problem,” one of the guards replied.

“See, the assistant quartermaster is a little miffed with us at present,” the other explained. “Some things went amiss…mistakes were made…lots of them. The quartermaster got chewed out by Teyrn Loghain, and then _he_ chewed out the assistant…”

“Who is taking it out on you lot,” Daylen finished. “What was it my old sergeant said? ‘Shit rolls downhill.’”

One of the guards snorted. “I hear that. To get back at us for landing him in trouble, the assistant quartermaster won’t give us our blades. And you can’t pass inspection without a regulation sword.”

“Wait, he the grumpy fellow who was polishing chainmail?” Daylen asked. The guard nodded. “You’re in luck. He just cleared off for a break. Let’s go.”

A few minutes later, the four of them were standing in front of the guard captain as he inspected their uniforms. “So, you think you’re ready to go on your first patrol mission, do you?”

“Yes, ser!” Daylen said proudly.

“That’s what I like to hear!” The captain replied, looking at Alistair. “You there! Blondie!”

“Yes, ser?”

“You're a soldier, and you should act like one.” The man turned away, trying to seem imperious. “What’s the one thing a soldier can’t do without?”

“What do I tell him?” Alistair hissed.

Daylen gave him an incredulous look. “Try discipline.”

“Discipline, ser!”

The captain shrugged. “You’re not as dumb as you look. See to it you all act like soldiers of Ferelden out there. I expect the lot of you back by sunup. Now get out of here, and may the Maker watch over you.”

Daylen let the other two soldiers pull ahead slightly and glared at Alistair. “I’m a _mage_ , Alistair, I don’t know shit about soldiers,” he whispered. “Weren’t you actually trained?”

“I panicked!” The two soldiers ahead of them paused at a checkpoint.

“Password?” The guard said idly.

“Ah, ‘rabbit,’ I think,” one of the other soldiers in their patrol replied.

“Going on your first patrol, are you?” Another guard asked. “Good luck.”

As the group left the front gate of Fort Drakon, Daylen spotted Shale standing in an alleyway. “Oi, I know a shortcut. It’s down that alley,” Daylen suggested, pointing.

As they entered the alley, Shale stepped into the road. “It will not move, I hope,” Shale said. “Crushing its skull would be so much fun, but time is short.”

“What’s all this, then?” one of the guards asked.

“I hate to break it to you,” Daylen said. “But you’re surrounded.”

“Don’t you mean we’re surrounded?” The other guard asked hopefully.

“No, pretty sure I meant you’re surrounded. I’m a Grey Warden, and they’re with me,” Daylen replied as the others stepped out of doorways and dark corners. “Wow, did _everyone_ come?”

“Of course,” Zevran replied. “We were debating whether to sneak in and attempt a rescue or simply assault the fortress outright.”

“Look, the charges against the Wardens are fake,” Daylen explained. “You let us walk away, nobody gets hurt. If you’d prefer to be taken prisoner, I can promise we’ll treat you better than they treated us.”

The two guards exchanged a nervous glance. “Look, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not die on my first day,” one said uneasily.

“I don’t know about him,” the other added, “but I haven’t seen anyone who was trying to escape.”

“Me neither,” the first agreed firmly. “So we’ll just be on our way. Have a nice day, Warden.”

—ROTG—

“Maker’s breath!” Eamon said as Daylen entered the study, still wearing the stolen armor. “It’s good to see you in one piece, my friend.”

“Indeed,” Anora added. “We have been praying for your safe return, Warden.”

“I think I’ve seen as much dungeon as I ever want to,” Daylen quipped. “Alistair’s changing his clothes. I think they need a security check. Sneaking out of there was surprisingly easy.”

“I can believe it,” Eamon replied. “Though I’m afraid if we do not act quickly to erode Loghain’s support, we may all be seeing a great deal of Fort Drakon in the future.”

“How much time do we have to stop him?” Daylen asked.

“Very little,” Anora said. “We will have to work together, and quickly. My father has gone mad. I didn’t believe it at first, but he is gripped by a paranoia so severe that it prevents him from seeing sense. He saw me as a threat, yet even now I’m certain he will be telling the nobles you are dangerous murderers that have kidnapped and mind-controlled me. He may even believe it.”

“So we rescued you…to what end?” Daylen asked bluntly.

“You will need ammunition come the Landsmeet, and I can help in that regard. You have only just arrived in the city, so perhaps you are unaware of some…recent events. Denerim has been in turmoil since Ostagar. Many people here are angry or grieving. Strangely, the worst unrest is in the alienage. Few elves accompanied the army. They should have little reason to be upset. Which means that Howe and my father must have given them reason. I don’t know what is happening there, but I am certain my father has his hands in it.”

“A useful lead, Anora, but…you could have sent this information with your maid,” Eamon replied.

“That is true,” Anora admitted. “I feared for my safety as Howe’s prisoner, but to tell the truth I sent Erlina to you because I hoped we might join forces. You need that evidence for the Landsmeet, but you also need a stronger candidate for the throne. You need me.”

Daylen tried to keep his face blank, but Anora’s eyes narrowing at him told him he’d failed. “And just how are you a stronger candidate?” He asked.

“I have no doubt Alistair is biddable enough, and decent, but even with his blood he is no king. You think only I can see it? Not only that, Alistair is a Grey Warden. It will look like you are trying to put a Grey Warden on the throne, despite your claims. I am a neutral party – and I am already queen. I am the daughter of Ferelden’s greatest general. Who do you think truly ruled this nation for the last five years? Cailan? I am what this country needs, not an untrained king who does not even want the throne. I can help you stop my father.” Daylen remained skeptical. “Consider what I have said. For now, I think I will retire to my room. Warden, when you have a moment I ask that you speak to me in private.”

“Well, she’s quite…spirited,” Eamon remarked after she and Erlina had left. “I cannot help thinking she may be trouble. But we should keep her close, all the same. This is an alliance of convenience. For the moment, we are united against Loghain. But be careful how much trust you place in her. I do not for a moment think Anora means to give up her power easily. Still, I would rather have her where we can watch her than actively working for Loghain.”

Daylen glanced at the door. “And she’s single now, right?”

Eamon paused. “Are you thinking you might stand a chance at courtship? It would be unseemly for her to marry so soon after Cailan’s death. She wouldn’t take that risk unless it helps her secure the throne.”

Daylen blinked. “Eamon, I was _joking_. I’m already seeing someone, and even if I was any sort of match for her, I’d go to bed every night worried I’d wake up with a knife between my ribs. But I digress. We’ve found evidence to sway Bann Alfstanna and Bann Sighard to our side, but we have a new player on the board.”

“Really?” Eamon asked. “Who?”

“That would be me,” Elissa said from the doorway. She had changed from the worn leathers, borrowing a set of clothes. “Arl Eamon. It is good to see you still among the living.”

Eamon peered at her. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“My father spoke highly of you,” Elissa continued, bowing at the waist. “Elissa Cousland, at your service.”

“Elissa?” Eamon repeated. “The Maker certainly moves in mysterious ways…we thought you were killed at Highever!”

Elissa’s face darkened. “I almost was. That night…” she paused, shaking herself. “Never mind. The rightful teyrna of Highever stands ready to support you at the Landsmeet.”

“Very well,” Eamon said. “Despite Loghain’s attempts to smear your family’s name, most do not believe his claims.”

“That talk about the Couslands throwing in with the Orlesians is straight out of Loghain's paranoid delusions,” Elissa said sourly. “My father was the only noble in Ferelden who had the power to threaten Loghain's schemes. Howe used that as an excuse to eliminate someone who stood in his way.”

“If you would excuse me for a moment, I have a few other things to attend to,” Eamon replied. “I will be right back.” The arl departed, leaving Daylen alone with Elissa.

“So, you’re going to try to put your friend on the throne?” Elissa asked after a few moments of silence.

“If I have to,” Daylen sighed. “I’m not seeing another option I can be sure about. Sure, Alistair has Theirin blood, but so have most of the nobles in Ferelden. And frankly, I haven't seen any proof that Alistair is Maric's child. Sure, Eamon said that Alistair was, but he could easily have snagged a Chantry orphan that looks vaguely like Maric and gone with it. It all comes down to the word of Eamon and Teagan. I don't doubt that Alistair is absolutely Maric's child, but it's not like there's any real evidence. Alistair didn't have any confidence in himself or his leadership ability in him when we met, and that's almost entirely a result of how Eamon treated him in his childhood.”

“He and I talked a bit after you got back,” Elissa said.

Daylen nodded. “Then you know. Why didn't Maric just acknowledge him? He wouldn't have been the only royal bastard in Ferelden history. The boy was dropped in the stables and left to sleep with the dogs, and then sent to the Chantry at the age of ten when he became inconvenient. Duncan recruiting him into the Wardens, a place he was _wanted_ , was one of the first times he ever felt like he belonged. But now suddenly he's useful. And once again, nobody has any regard for what Alistair wants. He's had all ambition drummed out of him and now he's being forced into a position he doesn't want by the same people who made him unsuited to that position in the first place. And I've lied, cheated, stolen, and murdered since the Blight began, but one of the worst things I've had to do was talk Alistair into becoming king.”

“You don't think I should be king?” Alistair asked.

Daylen froze. “How long have you been back there?”

“For most of it, I think,” Alistair said softly.

Daylen sighed, turning around. “I think you should become king. I think you're a better option than Anora, and I think that it is something you could be really good at.” He paused, before continuing. “But I don't think it's what _you_ want. And I'm sorry that I had anything to do with putting you in this position.”

“I know you are,” Alistair said. “But I’ve told you before, I don’t know the first thing about being king. And if Anora’s turned against Loghain, I say let her keep the crown. It looks better on her, anyway.”

“You’re wrong,” Eamon chimed in, making Alistair jump. “With a few months of experience, Alistair will make a fine king. He knows how to lead troops to defend his land. He knows how to stand and fight for justice. He knows how to show compassion to those less fortunate, and how to trust to the Maker’s guidance to know right from wrong. And he knows who to turn to for aid should that training fail him. He will be fine.”

Alistair still looked unsure, and Daylen changed the subject. “So what do you think he’s doing in the Alienage?”

“Maker knows what that man is capable of now,” Eamon replied.

“Well, then we’d better go find out,” Daylen declared. “I know that between Vaughan Kendells kidnapping elves and Howe’s purge, the alienage has already been through a lot. Whatever Loghain is up to now, we’ll put a stop to it.”

“If I might make a suggestion?” Eamon said. “Go speak with Anora. She will either be a powerful ally, or a powerful enemy, and the sooner we know which she is, the better.”

Daylen nodded. “Let me change out of this armor, then I’ll go put on my diplomacy face.”

A few minutes later, Daylen knocked at the door to the room the Queen had been given. Anora’s voice came from inside. “Come.” She was waiting inside, and Daylen bowed slightly at the waist. “Ah, hello again, Warden. It is good that you came to speak with me.”

“Before we attend to business, there is something I wished to give you,” Daylen began. He set a small urn on the table. “Some months ago, my companions and I returned to Ostagar, and retrieved some correspondence and artifacts from the army camp.” He paused, his voice cracking. “We also found your husband's body.”

“It was intact?” Anora asked, before catching herself. “I...I mean, I have heard stories of what the darkspawn do to the bodies left in their wake…”

Daylen swallowed hard. “They had him strung up like a trophy. We gave him the proper rites, that which any citizen of Ferelden or any Andrastian would receive. It was all we could give him, but I made sure that we gathered his ashes. I bring them to you.”

“It...was not always easy, our marriage,” Anora admitted. “But I did love him, truly.”

“I know,” Daylen said softly. “And although I only knew him for a short time, there is no doubt in my mind that he loved you as well. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Warden,” Anora replied. The two shared a moment of sympathetic silence, before Anora nodded. “I will be blunt. I can see that your voice will be a strong one in days to come. It is to you that Eamon listens, and with good reason. My father must be stopped, but once that is done Ferelden will need a ruler. I would welcome your support for my throne.”

“Are you proposing a more solid alliance?” Daylen asked.

“That is exactly what I am proposing. When the time comes, you support my bid in the Landsmeet to remain on the throne. You will be seen as my father’s enemy, yet you will be in support of his daughter. You will be seen as supporting the interests of Ferelden as opposed to solely those of the Grey Wardens. In return, I add my voice to yours. Do you see? Together we can do what alone we cannot.”

“I don’t mean to be impudent, by why should I support you?”

“For years I have ruled this kingdom as Cailan's queen. As much as they loved Cailan, all of the Bannorn knew this to be so. Cailan was a good man. But what is needed now is not another good man but a good ruler. I sent Erlina here not solely because I thought I needed help, but because I saw an opportunity, for us both. I need your support, Warden. And you will need mine.”

“Make your case. You think you’re a better candidate than Alistair?”

“Do you disagree? You are a fellow Grey Warden. What do you think of Alistair’s potential to rule, never mind his willingness?”

“I think he would do fine, actually,” Daylen replied.

“Alistair seems like a kind, well-meaning man, and biddable enough. These are admirable qualities, if not kingly ones. He also seems to be a fine Grey Warden, which is exactly why he should remain one, and serve the kingdom by defeating the darkspawn. And you do need me.”

“I think you need me more,” Daylen shot back. “How long do you think your father will allow you to retain your power, Anora?” he asked. “He's making a play for the throne. Your currently being on the throne won't stop him. His messenger in Orzammar was already referring to him as 'King Loghain.' I believe there are rather steep penalties for doing that.” Daylen's lip curled. “Not that he considers himself beholden to the law, after all. He made that clear when he abandoned his king to die. You remember your husband, of course.”

Anora ignored the jab. “What are you offering me?”

“You can be a deposed queen, replaced by her own father, or you can side with the Wardens as they sought to save Ferelden from the Blight,” Daylen offered.

“If I support you, do I have your word that you will support me as queen?”

“The Grey Wardens are not political,” Daylen said flatly. “We remain neutral to ensure that we don't wind up with leaders holding petty grudges against us. I only want Loghain removed from the situation because he is preventing us from fighting the Blight, and I'll do whatever it takes to get that done. A Warden more senior than I probably wouldn't have gotten mixed up in this mess to begin with. Make no mistake, however. I will not be your personal hatchet man or anything of the sort. I aim to depose Loghain because he has made the Wardens outlaws and there’s a bloody Archdemon coming this way.”

“Yet you intend to put a Grey Warden on the throne. Do I have your support?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to end this Blight,” Daylen replied.

“So we have a deal, Warden,” Anora concluded. “I trust you’ll keep your end of the bargain. Now, I suppose, comes the task of dealing with my father. That will be no small feat, of course, but I am certain you already know this.”

—ROTG—

“What did you promise her?” Alistair asked as Daylen rejoined them.

“Nothing,” Daylen said. “Neither of us trusts the other worth a piss and I wasn't going to offer anything. She asked me to promise to support her bid for the throne.”

“And what did you say?” Eamon chimed in.

“I gave her the same answer I saw Duncan give – the Grey Wardens aren't political. We can't throw in with her because her successor may not view her actions favorably and that could cause us all sorts of problems.” Daylen glanced over at Alistair. “I would love to see her deposed, but I also don't want to shove you onto the throne.”

“Why exactly would _you_ want Anora removed?” Eamon asked.

“She claims to have been the true power behind the throne for the last five years,” Daylen said. “Yet for the last five years Vaughan Kendells ran rampant across the Alienage. For the last five years, snakes like Howe were allowed to grow in power. For the last five years, Ferelden languished when it could have built. Her claim to being responsible for the last five years in Ferelden doesn't impress me, and it _certainly_ doesn't make me want to support her.”

“I’m guessing someone told her I was planning to steal her throne, though,” Alistair replied. “She has a nasty glare. Did anyone mention this wasn’t my idea? I think she’s a great queen. As far as I’m concerned, she’s welcome to it.”

Daylen glanced at Leliana lurking outside the door, the rogue giving him a nod. “I think you’d be a great king, Alistair.”

“Really?” Alistair asked skeptically. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

“Well, besides you’d look snappy with a crown?” Daylen asked. “You have a kind heart, and a strong sense of justice.”

“Well, it’s nice that you think so,” Alistair sighed. “I bet there’s a whole new wardrobe that comes as part of the deal. Maybe a nice scepter, too. I like that idea. Mind you, then I’d have ‘crown hair’ all the time. Is that a thing? Can you have ‘crown hair?’ I bet you can.”

“Well, your hairstyle would already fit in a crown,” Daylen suggested. “And if not, you’ll be king, who cares what people think of your hair?” Alistair chuckled.

“Boys…” Eamon sighed.

Both Wardens grinned unrepentantly at Eamon. “What do you think I should do?” Alistair asked Daylen. “Go ahead and be king? Just let it happen?”

“There’s not much choice,” Daylen said. “I think you should do what you want to do. But I believe you could do the job well.”

“Maybe there isn’t a choice. There are good reasons for me to be king, I know that. I suppose I could always flip a coin. Got one handy?” Daylen began patting down his pockets. “I’m kidding! Don't worry, I'll stop angsting about this. ‘All right, Alistair, enough whining!’ ‘Thank you, Alistair, that’s excellent advice, I’ll do my best.’”

“Oi, don’t you listen to him!” Daylen warned. “Alistair doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Alistair sniffed. “The moment has passed. Time to face the music.”

Eamon was staring at the two of them. “I need a drink.”

—ROTG—

Daylen and Alistair found Riordan and Tamarel waiting in a guest room, the two going over the Warden documents Riordan had recovered. “Ah, good to see you two,” Riordan said in greeting. “It looks as though you’re no worse for the wear after your stay in Fort Drakon.”

“Terrible accommodations,” Daylen replied.

Alistair nodded. “He’s right. Drafty rooms, and the beds? Oof.”

Tamarel shook her head, although Riordan was smiling. “Glad you’re not dead, Warden. We need someone to keep fighting.”

“So we’ve got a whole four Wardens now,” Daylen said. “What’s the plan?”

“Depose Loghain, get the Fereldan army, send for reinforcements, kill the Archdemon,” Riordan replied. “Easier said than done, but it is a plan. I plan to continue my journey towards Ostagar. Hopefully, I will be able to trace the heart of the Blight and where the Archdemon itself abides.”

“We’ve seen it,” Daylen explained. “We’ll give you the map we made of the Deep Roads. It was in the Dead Trenches. And there was a horde with it. A big one. Ten thousand strong, at least.”

“Then it is all the more urgent that we find it quickly,” Riordan declared.

“And I’m going with you,” Tamarel said. “I’m not much of a fighter, but I can help.”

Daylen shook his head. “Tamarel, I need you to go to the border, get the Orlesian Wardens. Just the Wardens, no chevaliers. That's if they'll come at this point. Goodness knows they certainly want us dead.”

Riordan broke in, shocked. “No one in Orlais wants you dead!”

Daylen looked at him in confusion. “Are you serious? For everything they say about Grey Warden brotherhood, if they wanted to help us, they would have. After Ostagar, they would have known full well that there were survivors – and even if there weren't, that would have been all the more reason to _not_ stand by! We weren't exactly hiding out. Assassins certainly didn't have any trouble finding us. Three separate groups managed to find us. Warden reinforcements could have come over the Frostbacks in twos and threes, or through the Deep Roads – which are  _completely fucking empty_! For pity's sake, they could have just sent us a big bag of coin! There were several times we barely had two coppers to rub together, and that's when we weren't relying on the people we were recruiting to feed and house us, or living off the land. If we'd had the resources we needed, Alistair and I could have wrapped this up six months ago!”

“And you would ask them for help?” Tamarel asked.

“Between them and the darkspawn, I’ll take them,” Daylen replied. “We’re short on options here. Riordan, you mentioned a vault here in Denerim. Where is it?”

“It’s located just off the Market District, in the northern alley past the Gnawed Noble Tavern. I’ll sketch out the code which will let you past the lock-wheel. Inside, you can take your pick of whatever equipment remains. It is the stockpile the Wardens have kept for centuries for the defense of Denerim. Any other questions?”

“Did you know Duncan very well?” Alistair asked.

“We went through our Joining together, more years ago than I like to remember,” Riordan remarked. “He was exactly the same back then – tough as stone and just as grizzled. I think he understood, sooner than the rest of us, just how ugly a choice it is to let the few be sacrificed to protect the many. Always left himself a soft spot for his recruits, though. Only way he ever let himself down.”

“He was a good man,” Alistair said softly.

“He was. And he shall be remembered,” Riordan agreed.

—ROTG—

_The Bannorn's role in Fereldan politics  
The central Ferelden Valley has always been a paradox: no single bann holds more than a few dozen leagues of farmland, yet together they govern a greater territory than all the teyrns and arls combined. This collection of independent banns is known as the Bannorn, and it is the heart of Fereldan politics._

_No person has ever sat upon the throne of Ferelden without first winning the approval of the Bannorn. Queen Fionne, who had the misfortune to take the throne in the eighteenth year of the Steel Age, wrote of the Bannorn, “There have been three wars this year fought over elopements. Five fought over wool. And one started by an apple tree. It isn't even winter yet. Who would believe that these same banns, now trying so hard to kill one another, just last year united to give me the crown?”_

_\--From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Dead Zone Abridged. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Pulp Fiction. [ return to text ]


	31. Into the Alienage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot in Denerim continues to unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017. A belated Happy Thanksgiving to my American followers. I personally helped my mother and sister cook a full Thanksgiving dinner from scratch, and then ate roughly my own weight in food.

_The City Elves  
The humans tell tales of Andraste, and to them, she was a prophet. To our people, however, she was an inspiration. Her rebellion against Tevinter gave our people a window through which to see the sun, and we reached toward it with all our strength. The rebellion was brief but successful; even after the death of the prophetess, we fought on for independence as the human Imperium began to crumble. In the end, we won freedom and the southern land known as the Dales, and we began the Long Walk to our new homeland._

_There, in the Dales, our people revived the lost lore as best we could. We called the first city Halamshiral, "end of the journey," and founded a new nation, isolated as elves were meant to be, this time patrolled by an order of Emerald Knights charged with watching the borders for trouble from humans._

_But you already know that something went wrong. A small elven raiding party attacked the nearby human village of Red Crossing, an act of anger that prompted the Chantry to retaliate and, with their superior numbers, conquer the Dales._

_We were not enslaved as we had been before, but our worship of the ancient gods was now forbidden. We were allowed to live among the humans only as second-class citizens who worshipped their Maker, forgetting once more the scraps of lore we had maintained through the centuries._

_\--"The Rise and Fall of the Dales," as told by Sarethia, hahren of the Highever alienage_

—ROTG—

“Thank you for bringing me along,” Morrigan said as they left the estate.

“You did seem like you wanted out of there in a big way,” Daylen replied.

“If one more servant asked me if I would like a change of clothes, I would have set the house on fire,” the witch groused.

“Is there a reason I’m accompanying you?” Elissa asked.

“Arl Eamon has had some dragonhide equipment made for us,” Daylen replied. “We’re going to have it fitted. If possible, we’re going to give you a set. No sense in you getting hurt.”

“That’s…very generous, Warden,” Elissa said.

“Well, you’re good in a fight. I’m hoping to talk you into helping us a bit more.”

They entered the smithy, finding an irritated man behind the counter. “Welcome to Wade’s Emporium. We have the finest armors in Denerim. Maybe in all of Ferelden. I’m Herren. How many we assist you?”

“We’re here to pick up an order,” Daylen said. “Arl Eamon would have placed it. Dragon-based materials.”

“Oh,” Herren replied, all trace of civility gone. “It’s _you_.”

“It’s done,” a dark-skinned man called from the back. “And the drake-scale is garbage. I wouldn’t let a festering swine wear it.”

“Wade, it’s amazing,” Herren protested. “I don’t see _anything_ wrong with it.”

“Are you blind as well as stupid?” Wade asked. “The leg-guards are too tight, it’ll chafe. The dye isn’t even. There are splotches, as well. It’s garbage, I say.”

Zevran hefted the armor. “Remarkably lightweight. This looks as though it would fit me.”

“Try it on,” Daylen urged. “Let’s see how it fits.”

“The second set of drake scales went better,” Wade went on. “It went much faster, as well.”

“And he closed up the shop,” Herren groaned. “We lost so many orders…”

“It’s…well, decent,” Wade said, setting it on the bench. “A few things I’m rather proud of.”

“Leliana? Elissa?”

“This is far too tight for me,” Elissa admitted, holding up the cuirass. “Lady Leliana? Perhaps you should try it?” Leliana ducked into a changing stall as Zevran emerged. “Looks like it fits.”

“Bit loose around the shoulders, but I can adapt to that,” Zevran announced, bending his knees and testing his range of motion in the armor. “Amazingly lightweight.”

“How did the rest of it go?” Daylen asked.

“I made several sets of armor,” Wade explained. “Three lightweight dragonskin sets, two sets of dragonscale mail, and even a set of dragonbone plate. These are my life’s work.”

“Elissa, try the dragonskin on,” Daylen suggested, hefting another set of the dragonskin mail. “This…looks like it might fit me.” He stepped into a side room, Leliana emerging with a smile on her face.

“Dibs on the dragonbone plate,” Alistair said, hefting the armor. “Oh, yes.”

“Maybe we can work something with the dragonskin into mage robes for Wynne and Morrigan,” Daylen remarked, tugging off his robes and pulling the armor on over his breeches and shirt. “Oh, my, this barely weighs a thing.” He looked at his robes, before shrugging and pulling them on over the armor.

The two Wardens emerged close together, Daylen settling his robes into place. “Aren’t you wearing it?” Alistair asked.

The Warden grinned. “It’s under my robes. Nobody will even know I’m wearing it, and I’d bet this thing would stop a bloody greatsword.” Daylen looked Alistair up and down. “You know what you look like?”

“A giant target?” Alistair guessed.

“A king,” Daylen replied. “That fits you well.” He looked to Herren. “While we’re here, do you have a set of armor made for a dwarf that we can purchase?”

“There’s a silverite set we have available,” Herren suggested.

“I won’t hear of it!” Wade interrupted. “I can make a dwarven-sized dragonbone set!”

Herren was glaring murderously, but Wade quickly took Oghren’s measurements, the dwarf eyeing the blacksmith as he wrapped the measure around Oghren’s chest. “It will take me a few hours,” Wade pronounced, pouring coal into the forge.

“So fast?” Herren asked.

“Of course, Herren, have some faith,” Wade said airily. “I am a master armorer, you know.”

“Miracles never cease,” Herren groaned. “But you. You need to leave.”

As they left, Alistair nudged Daylen. “Nothing for Sten?”

“The armor he’s wearing is already excellent,” Daylen replied. “And Herren already looked ready to murder someone. I wasn’t going to push it by asking for a Qunari-sized set.”

“So now what?”

Daylen considered their options. “Now we drop off or sell our old equipment, and then we need to do some legwork. We need to talk to Bann Sighard and Bann Alfstanna.  And Ignacio, as well.” He paused, seeing Slim Couldry nodding with a wide grin. “And another friend.”

“Good to see you, Warden,” Slim greeted them. “Fighting the good fight, eh?”

“Mostly,” Daylen replied. “You have any marks or break-ins for me?”

“One more swipe, and no one will ever forget it,” Slim said. “Six sovereigns, and I guarantee you’ll love it.”

“This better be worth it,” Daylen muttered, counting out the coin.

“Teyrn Loghain is out in the field,” Slim explained. “I figure you’d like to get back at him, right? Word is that his seneschal has been getting the teyrn’s crown all nice and sparkly for the Landsmeet, and he’s taking a bit of a rest at the Gnawed Noble Tavern. He won’t be there long. He has a heavy guard, but if you can make off with the tyrant’s own crown, think of the embarrassment!”

Daylen shared a gleeful look with Alistair. “Slim, don’t ever change,” the Warden said.

A few minutes later, the group was in the Gnawed Noble tavern. Daylen spotted Bann Alfstanna first, recognizing her from Eamon’s description. “What do you suppose Eamon is playing at?” she was asking another man. “Surely he doesn’t expect us to believe Anora unfit to rule with her father to advise her.”

“I wonder that, myself,” the other man replied. “His timing is…unfortunate. South Reach is overrun. I’ve little time to devote to politics at present.”

“Overrun?” Alfstanna echoed. “Has the Blight truly spread so far?”

“Most of my freeholders have fled to Redcliffe or Denerim, but I doubt they’ll be safe there for long.”

“Maker’s breath…Bryland, I had no idea.”

“Be careful how loudly you speak of it,” Bryland cautioned. “Wulff lost both his boys to darkspawn, trying to evacuate West Hills.”

Daylen coughed politely as he approached. “May I help you?” Alfstanna asked.

“I was asked to give you this,” Daylen replied, handing her the signet ring her brother had given him.

“This…is Irminric’s,” Alfstanna said as she examined it, before turning a baleful glare on Daylen. “Explain yourself. My brother would no more part with this ring than his head.”

“You might ask Loghain,” Daylen answered. “Irminric asks you to pray for him.”

“I haven’t heard from my brother in months,” Alfstanna admitted. “Where is he? What’s happened?”

“He was captured by Howe’s men while chasing a maleficar. He’s in the dungeon of the arl of Denerim’s estate.”

“A dungeon?” Alfstanna asked, scandalized. “What – no. I will go to him at once. _Someone_ will answer for this.”

“Well, Howe’s laid up with a bad case of dead,” Elissa broke in. “So I suggest you look to Loghain.”

Alfstanna glanced at Elissa, before pausing and looking again. “You’re Bryce Cousland’s child, aren’t you?” Elissa nodded. “I was sorry to hear about your family. The Seawolf was a friend of my mother’s.”

Elissa smiled faintly. “The Soldier and the Seawolf. It’d been a long time since she had borne that moniker. At least now they’ve been avenged.”

“So it was Howe, then,” Bryland remarked.

Elissa nodded. “And I’ll make sure that Loghain pays for it. Howe already has.”

“You have my support,” Bryland promised.

“And mine,” Alfstanna added. “When the time comes, Warden, you can count on us.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Daylen replied. “Please extend my best wishes to your brother for a speedy recovery.”

Across the room, they found Bann Sighard. Daylen coughed again, and Sighard groaned. “Whoever you are, I…” He paused as he looked Daylen over. “Wait, I know you. My son described you in great detail. He tells me that I owe you his life.”

“I would leave no man to suffer at Howe’s hands.”

“When I saw my poor boy’s legs,” Sighard took a slow breath, visibly struggling to control his temper. “I only wish Howe still lived, that I might tear him apart myself. I would bring troops against his son, but Oswyn tells me Thomas had no part in his father’s depravity.”

“Howe has paid for his offenses,” Elissa chimed in. “Not nearly enough.”

Sighard smiled as he saw her. “Bryce Cousland’s girl, eh? You keep fine company, Warden. My condolences, Lady Cousland.” Elissa nodded her thanks, and Sighard looked to the Warden. “Is there anything you would ask as a reward for saving Oswyn?”

“All I want is for you to speak out against Loghain,” Daylen replied. “When this is over, I may be able to help with your son’s legs. I’m a healer of some skill.”

“Know that I will stand behind you at the Landsmeet, with all the support I can muster,” Sighard promised. “In fact, I’m taking my supper today with Bann Reginalda of the White River Bannorn. I’ll speak with her about this at once.”

As the group entered the side room of the Gnawed Noble, a man stepped in their way. “Nobody goes in the room,” he barked. “By authority of Teyrn Loghain.”

Daylen sighed. “Stand aside or be thrown aside.”

“I’ll take none…” The man paled as he recognized Daylen. “Of…” he spotted Elissa and grew even whiter. “Sweet Andraste.”

“Why don’t you take the day off?” Daylen asked.

“Thank you, Warden. Men? Let’s take a break.” The guards all but fled the room, and Daylen glanced at Elissa.

“What exactly did you do in between leaving Highever and meeting me?”

“Little of this, little of that,” Elissa replied. “I ran a few jobs for the crime lords here in Denerim, trying to make ends meet. Killed a few of them when they tried to take each other out. Eventually I was pretty much the only person left in charge, and I alerted the guard. Streets are cleaner than they’ve been in months. Wasn’t all me, a couple of the gangs just vanished one day, but I got the credit.”

Daylen grinned. “You’re welcome. We did that. Bit of bounty hunting.”

“I say, what’s the meaning of this?” the seneschal demanded.

“As crass as it sounds, this is a robbery,” Daylen said brightly.

“A robbery?” the man asked. “But you…you’re the Warden.” He shoved the crown into Daylen’s hands. “Here. Please, spare me!” The man legged it, and Daylen bit back a laugh as he stuffed the crown in his pack.

Ignacio was waiting for them, smiling as they came in. “Ah, Warden. You’ve been busy, traveling all over. And such tragic, tragic news you keep bringing. I was wondering if you’d check up on one more person, here in Denerim. I’m sure you’ll find this scroll quite interesting.” Daylen checked the scroll, raising an eyebrow. “Can we count on you?”

“Oh, my, yes,” Daylen replied. “I’m sure we can make time to see how this Captain Chase is doing.”

“Who was that?” Elissa asked as they left.

“He’s an Antivan Crow,” Daylen explained. “Leader of a local cell. We’ve done some jobs for him.”

“An assassin? Here?”

Zevran coughed. “And here, dear lady. I too am a Crow. Well, was.”

“You attract such interesting people,” Elissa told Daylen.

They found Slim Couldry outside, waiting for them. “You have to admit, that was worth every copper you paid me, eh? They’re calling you the Dark Wolf. What do you think of that? Too bad no one can know, you could get a lot of action.”

“Nothing quite like being appreciated,” Daylen replied. “Anyone else’s day I can ruin?”

“There’s nothing more I can offer you like that,” Slim said regretfully. “Anything else you fancy?”

“Know of any good places to break in?”

“I have one last job,” Slim replied. “A legendary one. Ten sovereigns is my take. High risk, but the prize? Oh-ho.” Daylen handed over the coin. “Bann Franderel is one of the richest men in the entire kingdom. At his grand ball next week, he’s displaying some of his priceless treasures. Paintings of old masters, the armaments of the first king of Denerim, and more. He’s also a staunch supporter of Teyrn Loghain. Mages have put up magical wards, but I’ve got a route that will bypass that.”

“We’ll go tonight,” Daylen promised. “You know a good fence?” He pulled the crown out of his pack. “I can’t exactly hock this at Wonders of Thedas, you know?”

Slim’s directions led them to an associate of Ignacio’s, who handed over most of his ready coin for the chance to tweak the Teyrn’s nose. And, he said as he handed them almost fifty sovereigns, the opportunity to sell the crown back to him.

“I’m afraid there are some other matters I need to attend to,” Elissa remarked. “I’m going to talk to some other banns, try to muster what other support I can against Loghain. I hate playing politics, but just sticking a knife in the bastard won’t solve all our problems.” The rogue bid her goodbyes, and headed off for Arl Eamon’s estate.

“Before we head into the Alienage,” Alistair suggested, “let’s check out that Warden vault.”

It only took a few moments to get there, as the warehouse that concealed it was just around the corner. “Didn’t we steal some silver bars or something that Howe was embezzling from here?” Daylen asked as they entered the warehouse.

“Presumably this place belonged to the Wardens,” Leliana said. “Perhaps that is why Howe had access to it.”

Alistair found the concealed lever on a set of shelves in the back of the warehouse, and the shelves slid aside to reveal a door. Daylen fiddled with the lock-wheel for a moment, following Riordan’s instructions, and the door clicked open.

Alistair whistled as they stepped inside. “Not bad.” Armor stands and weapon racks were set out in several places along the walls, next to chests and bookcases that had been stripped bare. “I wonder how much was recovered by Riordan, and how much was taken by the Wardens before Ostagar,” he remarked.

“If you can find anything superior to what you’re already carrying, grab it,” Daylen ordered as the others filed into the room. Sten and Shale waited outside, Sten preferring his current equipment and Shale unable to fit through the door.

Oghren hefted a silverite greatsword, turning it over. After a moment’s thought, he set his old battleaxe on the rack and strapped on the sheath for the greatsword. Morrigan and Wynne each picked up a new staff, discarding their old equipment casually. Zevran picked up a silverite waraxe, giving it an experimental twirl in his off hand as he judged the weight.

Daylen and Alistair were already more or less set for equipment and merely watched the proceedings until Daylen spotted a shield sitting on a rack. The Warden picked it up, examining it for a moment. “Hey, Alistair, take a look at this.”

“This…this shield,” Alistair said. “It’s Duncan’s. That’s his crest.”

“Well, you said you wanted something to remember him by,” Daylen offered, holding the shield out. “Should go nicely with the sword and dagger.”

“Thank you,” Alistair replied, hefting the shield. “Truly. I had no idea his shield wasn’t with him.” He drew Duncan’s sword, settling into a guard stance. “This is perfect. I don’t know how to express my gratitude. This means a great deal to me.”

Daylen grinned. “I can see that.”

“I can’t believe that you remembered it at all.”

The Warden scoffed. “Of course I remembered.”

“I’ll treasure this,” Alistair promised. “Thank you.”

“So what now?” Leliana asked, a new pair of silverite daggers strapped to her back. “To the Alienage?”

“Not yet,” Daylen corrected. “We’ve got some side business to take care of first.”

“Daylen, we don’t have much time,” Alistair warned. “The Landsmeet is only a few days away.”

“I know. But this Captain Chase that Ignacio wants us to remove was a favored underling of Howe, and the more damage we can do to Loghain’s power structure the better. There’s some sort of ransom payoff that the Crows are going to interrupt.”

It didn’t take long to find the meeting point, a handful of disguised Crows standing a fair distance away from several of Howe’s men, quietly talking.

“Leliana, Zevran,” Daylen whispered, spotting several more of Howe’s thugs hidden around the area, “can you take these men out quietly? Even just a couple of them?”

“I find that highly insulting,” Zevran replied, readying his bow.

“Sorry, I should have known,” Daylen said. “Everyone else, be ready to intervene.”

Leliana and Zevran eliminated half a dozen guards between them before Daylen nodded to his companions, the group of them moving purposefully into the square. Captain Chase scowled as he spotted the Warden’s party. “The deal was no one else. Attack!”

Daylen whistled, and several of Howe’s men dropped, claimed by arrows or magic or in one case, a flung wheelbarrow that collapsed the man’s chest. One of the Crows dropped, blood streaming from a chest wound, and Daylen barreled into the fray, ducking a mace strike and frying the man with lightning. He hit the wounded Crow with a healing spell as Cupcake pounced on Captain Chase, the man screaming as the dog savaged him. Morrigan charged into the battle in the form of a bear, bellowing and smacking a guard to the ground. Alistair, Sten, and Oghren were carving their way through the remaining soldiers as Shale grabbed a screaming thug by the head and crushed his skull. As the nearly headless corpse hit the ground, the square went quiet, the Warden’s companions looking around for further enemies. Cupcake looked up from Captain Chase’s corpse and barked, dark stains around his mouth.

“We’re done here,” the lead Crow declared as Daylen helped him up. “Go back to your contact, quickly.” Without another word, the Crows left.

After a bit of inspired looting, the party regrouped. “All right, we’ve got an option here,” Daylen said. “Alistair, while we were in Orzammar, we found out about an unbound revenant that may be here in Denerim. It’s not far from where we are now.”

“Let’s go take care of that,” Alistair replied immediately.

It didn’t take long to find the address listed in the notes. The house was marked with the initials ‘VM,’ and a light was visible through the window, although no answer came when Daylen knocked.

“Hello?” he called. “I would speak with Vilhm Madon.” There was no response. “I’m here to discuss the stories of Gaxkang! I’m not leaving!” After a pause, the door unlocked. “Be ready.”

A single unassuming man was waiting inside. “Grey Warden, isn’t it?” He asked. “Strange you would force such a visit in a time of Blight. But I suppose I am used to inspiring a different kind of seeker.”

“Your stories attract them,” Daylen replied. “And then they disappear.”

The man chuckled. “The adequate ones find the beacons, and then I find _them_. But you…you are already brighter than the signal at Ishal. Eyes are on you from a very high vantage, Grey Warden. I cannot hide in your wake, but I will not be a footnote!” Everyone drew, and the man gave a feral grin, his smile stretching wide across his face and displaying most of his teeth. “Witness Gaxkang!”

The man’s form burst into that of an arcane horror, and three separate Mana Clashes hit him simultaneously, all three mages acting independently. Gaxkang stumbled, but roared at them and changed shape again, blurring into a revenant’s form. The creature’s reach was dangerous in the confined space, until Shale stepped forward, ripping the creature’s sword out of its hand. The other warriors were closing to engage as Shale threw a punch, the revenant bringing up its heavy shield just in time. The shield rang like a gong as the blow impacted, the noise deafening in the tiny house. Then two greatswords bit into Gaxkang’s flesh from opposite sides, ice crawling across the armor’s joints and locking the creature into place. Alistair called down a Holy Smite, and Daylen flinched reflexively as the attack connected, the revenant screeching in pain.

Oghren grunted as the revenant broke free of the ice, smacking him backwards. The dwarf shook his head and smashed his sword into the creature’s leg, cleaving into the armor and undead flesh.

“Enough,” Daylen snarled, weaving magic. The spell connected, and the revenant howled as filaments of magic wrapped around it and began to squeeze, the armor collapsing inward under the assault. The creature collapsed when its helmet imploded, and Daylen dropped the spell, panting heavily.

“Well, that’s one less revenant to worry about,” Alistair pronounced, kicking the corpse. They looted the house, incinerating the body and recovering the revenant’s weapons.

“Let’s head back to the estate and unload,” Zevran suggested.

“Good idea. Nine armed lunatics walking into the alienage is going to cause enough unrest. If we look like we’re trying to loot the place…”

Every town had its poor section, its underbelly, its bad neighborhood, even if it was just a hamlet village with no name. Denerim had a rather large network of back alleys and side streets that the guard didn't or couldn't patrol due to corruption or lack of competent manpower. Despite the fact that this was the capital of a relatively prosperous nation, Denerim did have a rather large criminal population, one that had been bolstered by refugees and newly minted bandits thanks to the Blight.

And Daylen, sweet, compassionate, occasionally somewhat absentminded boy that he was, managed to stroll right into the place without realizing it.

And it was only when the remainder of Zevran's Crow cell caught up to them that he realized it.

“Warden,” Zevran said quietly, “we may have a problem.”

Daylen looked over. “What is it?”

“There’s nobody here,” Zevran pointed out. “No civilians. No witnesses. Not even a stray dog.”

“And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last,” an accented voice called. Zevran flinched, ducking back. “The Crows send their greetings, once again.” Daylen looked up, spotting a dark-skinned man in leathers standing ahead. “And where is Zevran?” the man asked. “I don’t see him with you. How very disappointing.”

“Zevran is dead,” Daylen replied.

The man chuckled. “Don’t bother. I know very well he travels with you.”

“Here I am, Taliesen,” Zevran spat, emerging from the shadows. “Tell me, were you sent? Or did you volunteer for this?”

“Oh, ho! And he makes an appearance!” Taliesen crowed. “I volunteered, of course. When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.”

“Is that so?” Zevran spread his arms. “Well here I am, in the flesh.”

“You can return with me, Zevran,” Taliesen offered. “I know why you did this, and I don’t blame you. It’s not too late. Come back, and we’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.”

“Or you could join us,” Daylen replied.

“No, I rather like being a Crow,” Taliesen said. “But you can still come back, Zevran.”

“Of course, I’d need to be dead first,” Daylen pointed out.

“And I’m not about to let that happen,” Zevran declared.

Taliesen’s eyes widened. “What? You’ve gone soft!”

“I’m sorry, my old friend,” Zevran said. “But the answer is no. I’m not coming back…and you should have stayed in Antiva.”

Assassins emerged from every direction – out of doorways, leaning out of windows, and Daylen was moderately sure one popped out of a barrel with a crossbow before Leliana’s arrow caught the man in the neck.

The party sprang into action, Daylen lobbing a fireball into a pack of assassins and sending them running, screaming as flames licked at their flesh. Sten and Oghren split up as Morrigan and Wynne backed up against each other, casting spells as quickly as they could. Alistair and Shale moved together, Shale wading into a pack of assassins as Alistair slid low, hamstringing a man and knocking him flat with his shield.

Zevran was charging at Taliesen, the Crow watching disdainfully as his former friend approached. Then the man calmly drew a crossbow and shot Zevran. The arrow caught Zevran in the chest, punching through his leathers. "I am sorry, Zevran," Taliesen said softly. "But you had your chance."

The elf coughed and spat out a bit of blood, before wrapping a hand around the arrow's shaft and ripping it from his chest. The wound closed almost immediately.

"What is this magic?" Taliesen asked incredulously.

"Lifeward," Daylen said with a smirk. "You can't kill me. You can't kill him. You can't kill _any of us_."

"Now let's see if that goes both ways," Zevran growled, drawing his other sword and striding purposefully towards his former comrade. Eyes widening, Taliesen drew and fired again, but Zevran casually sidestepped the arrow, closing quickly. The Crow dropped the bow and drew his daggers, only for one to go flying off to the side along with most of the fingers from that hand as Zevran struck first. The Crow gasped in pain, trying to parry and whipping his hand past Zevran's face, trying to blind him with streaming blood. Zevran ducked, and the two engaged, blades flashing back and forth as each searched for an opening. Steel clashed against steel as the others ripped into the remaining Crows, blood splashing into the dirt.

The lip of Zevran’s new axe hooked around the blade of Taliesen’s remaining dagger and pulled it out of the way as the elf’s sword came up, piercing through Taliesen’s leathers. “I’m so, so sorry,” Zevran whispered, kicking the dagger away as it fell from Taliesen’s hand and cradling the man as he slowly lowered him to the floor. “Say hello to Rinna for me.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Zevran,” Taliesen coughed, going limp in the elf’s arms.

The last Crow met a sticky end under Shale’s fist, and the group wiped themselves off, checking each other over for injuries or damage to their new armor. Wynne healed a minor scrape Oghren had picked up as Daylen slowly approached Zevran, the elf still kneeling over his dead friend. “Are you all right?” The mage asked quietly.

“And there it is,” Zevran sighed, closing Taliesen’s eyes. “Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows.” He swallowed hard, before standing up. “They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesen. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Daylen asked. “Isn’t it? I mean, what does this mean?”

“I do not know,” Zevran admitted as the others approached. “It seems I have options now, whereas once I had none. I have enjoyed our company, but I am wondering if it is not time for me to leave. That would be the practical thing, no?”

“I suppose it would,” Daylen allowed. “The decision is yours. You’ve been a great help, Zevran, and if you want to leave, I won’t stop you.” He smiled faintly. “But don’t you want to stay for the treasure?”

The elf paused. “You make a convincing argument. You do seem to stumble onto treasure on a regular basis, somehow.”

“Usually by prying it from the hands of its former owners,” Daylen remarked.

“All right. I’ll stay. Others may try to assassinate you yet, and I would be simply heartbroken if I could not make money off of it.” Daylen snorted. “Let us return to the task at hand, then. There is still much to be done, yes?”

Daylen turned to address his companions, now that the looting was done. “All right. We’ve got work to do. Oghren, Zevran, Morrigan, Cupcake, come with me. The rest of you, head back to the estate and clean up. We’ll be heading into the alienage tomorrow morning, but we’ve got more work to do tonight.”

—ROTG—

“I heard there was quite a scuffle in the alley ways,” Ignacio remarked. “Well done, Warden.”

“Rescuing the kid was never part of my mission, was it?” Daylen asked.

“Our contract had two important jobs. One was to kill the boy’s kidnapper, Captain Chase. The other was his rescue. You took care of Chase. And some ‘friends’ have already returned the boy safely to his father.”

Daylen shrugged. “And why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“We are only told what we need to know,” Ignacio replied. “That’s an assassin’s life. All you needed to know was your target. Any more information you got was really a bonus. Crows are hired for their discretion as well as for their performance.”

Daylen grunted. “Well, he’s dead.”

“Your payment is in the chest,” Ignacio said. “My superiors want me to convey their thanks. The Crews aren’t accepting any new contracts on you. And when this Blight ends, we’d love you to visit Antiva to discuss other…opportunities.”

“You willing to talk straight with me now?” Daylen asked.

“I did what I had to do. But there’s no more need for word games.”

“Who contracted all these assassinations?”

“The civil war brought many old grudges to a boil. You’ll be pleased to know that those contracts helped your own cause, some more directly than others. After all, it is not in the Crows’ best interest that the archdemon wins.”

“Then why were you lot trying to kill me before?”

“For a time, we though that Loghain was the only man for the job. But that’s before we got to know you. It was too late then, of course, Taliesen had already accepted a contract. Even now, until you kill all of Taliesen’s men, you will have to fight my brothers. We never cancel a contract once accepted.”

“Well, that’s already taken care of,” Daylen said bluntly.

Ignacio’s eyebrows raised. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“It’s all very recent developments,” Daylen replied. “I was expecting to be double-crossed.”

“And I was expecting the same,” the Crow master said. “But our order has survived the centuries because we _always_ uphold our deals. Like I said, sending Zevran after you was nothing personal. We’ve determined you are a far better ally than an enemy.”

“If you come across some work that might benefit the Wardens, I might be open to further business opportunities,” Daylen mused. “But I honestly don’t see myself going to Antiva anytime soon. I’m sure it’s a lovely country, but I just have too much work to do here in Ferelden, even after the Blight.”

“A shame, then. Perhaps we can work together sometime in the future,” Ignacio remarked. “It’s time for me to take a vacation, however. It was a pleasure working with you, Warden. Luck be to you.”

The group recovered their payment, before returning to Wade’s Emporium. “It’s finished!” Wade gushed, setting the armor on the workbench. “It’s…acceptable. I may need to adjust it.”

“Well, let’s try it on,” Oghren rumbled, strapping the armor on. “Oh, by the Stone, that’ll sodding well do the job.” He thumped a gauntleted fist against the breastplate. “Ha! I’d like to see a darkspawn try to hurt me now!”

“I need a sabbatical,” Wade declared. “Maybe someplace warm.” Herren groaned.

—ROTG—

“So what, you alerted the Templars?” Daylen asked as they walked through the sewers.

“I did,” Alistair replied. “They promised to check it out as quickly as they could. The body we found, Ser Friden? He disobeyed his superiors to investigate the reports of blood magic. That would be one thing, but the fact that he had been killed made them decide to look into it.”

“Good,” Daylen muttered. “Let them handle it. We’ve got enough problems.” He paused, magelight flaring in his hand as he looked at the map. “I think we’re here.”

“Is there a reason we’re using the sewers?” Leliana asked, a handkerchief held over her mouth.

“According to Slim’s information there are too many wards, traps, and guards to get through to the vault from the surface,” Daylen explained, snuffing out the light. “But this route is apparently undefended.”

They clambered up into a narrow hallway through a grate, Zevran going first followed by Daylen and Leliana. Alistair left the grate open at Zevran’s instruction as they slowly crept down the hallway, checking side rooms for any signs of guards.

—ROTG—

Alistair was still choking on the poison, Leliana coughing wetly but dragging her bow up, trying to nock an arrow through the tears in her eyes. Daylen had a growing azure cloud around his hands, trying to stabilize the warrior as another half-dozen guards entered the room, weapons drawn.

“Allow me,” a lightly accented male voice said. Swords flashed in the torchlight, and Zevran engaged, a snarl twisting his features.

It was one Antivan Crow against six trained guards. They should have brought more.

He let them come to him, a sword darting out and testing a guard’s reactions as he offhandedly jabbed another one in the calf, the blade shearing through leather and sending the guard limping back. Another pair of guards lunged, but Zevran’s footwork was impeccable, the elf easily moving around the wild strikes and leaving two guards each down a working hand. As the weapons and severed fingers clattered to the floor, Zevran ended the two with an efficient stab and twist each.

Daylen finally gave up, hauling Alistair over his shoulders and hitting Leliana on the shoulder as he passed by. “Let’s go!” Zevran fell back, a wall of ice springing up between him and the guards as Daylen slapped a hand against the wall. “Zevran, take the lead,” Daylen coughed, spitting out bloody phlegm. “Maker, what was in that trap?”

“Nothing good,” Leliana rasped, trying to clear her throat. “Clear on this side. So far.” They hustled up the ramp, finding more soldiers and a pair of mages waiting for them. Daylen drained one mage of his mana, turning and crying out as the other winged him with a bolt of lightning. The Warden dropped to one knee as Zevran engaged the guards, Leliana hitting the other mage with an arrow in the chest as the soldiers began to crowd Zevran. Daylen set the dazed warrior down, casting with his good hand and freezing several soldiers in place. “Leave them! Let’s go!” He grabbed Alistair by the back of his armor, hauling the warrior along over the floor stones as they made for the grate.

—ROTG—

Daylen winced as Morrigan examined his arm. “There does not appear to be any permanent damage,” she reported. “Your healing skills in the field did most of the work. There is still some healing to be done, but you were lucky.”

The Warden nodded. “How are Alistair and Leliana?” he asked, pouring a glass of whisky with his good hand and downing it.

“Both shall live, thanks to Wynne’s efforts,” Morrigan replied, setting to work healing his arm. “Alistair is conscious, and she is seeing to Leliana now. What happened?”

“It was a trap,” Daylen growled, downing another glass of whisky. “The Bann’s men were waiting for us, and when we opened the vault, Alistair and Leliana got a blast of some sort of poison dust in the face. Leliana only got winged by it, but Alistair inhaled a lot when it hit him. I picked up a little when I dragged him out of there. Zevran was watching our back when it went off, so he didn’t hit at all.” Morrigan finished, and Daylen flexed the arm, nodding gratefully. “Thank you.”

“I take it you shall be having words with this man who sent you?”

“I don’t believe he was in on it,” Daylen replied. “He’s a crook, but he’s not stupid.”

—ROTG—

“You got an explanation for last night?” Daylen asked, glaring at Slim Couldry.

“I can’t believe Bann Franderel fooled me,” Slim said. “His guards almost nabbed you. I feel like a bloody fool, I do.”

“Imagine how we felt,” Daylen grumbled. “We almost didn’t make it out.”

“Listen, I have to go.” Slim held out the money Daylen had paid him. “Here’s your coin back. I won’t take a silver because of the way that went down. Give me some time, and come back. We’ll get our revenge, we will.”

Daylen returned to the estate, looking at his companions. “All right. So I’ve been thinking that it might not be the best idea to take _everyone_ into the alienage. Might just be asking for trouble. So Wynne, Alistair, and Zevran, I want you three to come with me.” Cupcake whined, and Daylen sighed. “Yes, you can come too, all right. Don’t pout.”

“ _Whuff_!”

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome.” Daylen nodded. “If anything else comes up, we’ll take care of it when we get back.”

—ROTG—

The alienage was a walled-off slum, apparent from the moment the Warden’s party crossed the bridge and entered through the gate. The filth and squalor the elves lived in was one thing, but the air of hopelessness pervasive throughout the neighborhood was quite another. A group of elves were harassing a human. “We told you to stay out of our alienage, shem,” one snarled. “You too good to listen to elves?”

“What do you want?” the man demanded. “Money?”

“Money?” the elf snapped. “You think we can buy us? You think we’re so far beneath you, we’ll just take whatever you give us?”

“I think we better explain things to him,” another elf suggested.

“Someone’s coming!” a third hissed as the Warden approached. The elves ran away, and the man turned to Daylen.

“You all right?” Daylen asked.

“I’m fine,” the man insisted. “Please, don’t talk to me. You’ll only attract their notice.” He moved off, and the Warden shrugged.

“Spare a silver for a war veteran?” A beggar asked.

Daylen looked at the elf. “Where’d you get injured, soldier?”

“Ostagar,” the beggar replied. “Darkspawn took off half my foot.”

Daylen handed him a sovereign. “Hope this will get you off the street. Ostagar was rough.”

“Oh, Andraste bless you, ser!” The beggar said. “I won’t forget your face!”

“Perhaps I should not be here,” Zevran commented, reading an official notice. “This says ‘elves who have swords will die upon them,’ after all.”

“They can try, but I wouldn’t put money on them succeeding,” Daylen replied, hearing commotion ahead.

“How can you be here?” A redheaded elf woman was shouting. “How many of our brothers and sisters and children have these men already taken?” A crowd of elves was mostly ignoring the speaker, clamoring around the door of a building with several men in leathers and a pair of men in strange robes out in front. “How do you even know they’re working magic? They could just be chanting gibberish! It’s not as if you’d ever know!”

“I’ve got children at home!” Another elf called. “I can’t wait out here for another day!”

“So go home!” The elf cried. “The best thing you can do for your children is not trust these charlatans!”

“Everyone remain calm,” one of the men in robes said soothingly. “We will help as many as we can today, so long as we can do this in an orderly fashion.”

“Oh, you’re ‘helping’ us, are you shem?” The redhead challenged. “Like Valendrian and my uncle Cyrion, you helped them, didn’t you? Helped them never to be seen again!”

The man sighed. “We’ve explained this to you before, girl. More whining will not persuade us to let you into the quarantine to carry plague back out to the Alienage.”

“Quit trying to get us all killed, Shianni!” another elf urged. “Some of us have still got things to live for!”

“If this spell of their works, why are half the people they quarantine perfectly healthy?” Shianni demanded.

“There’s a plague here?” Daylen asked.

“What’s wrong, shem, did you get bored and decide to come watch the elves die of plague?” Shianni spat.

“Don’t call me that,” Daylen snapped. “I’m trying to be polite here, the least you could do is return the favor.”

“Wait,” Shianni paused. “Soris told me about you. You’re the one who freed him from the dungeons.”

“Soris? Redhead, got locked up when the Arl’s son kidnapped a bunch of women?” Shianni flinched, and Daylen paled. “Wait. You…you would be one of the women he kidnapped.”

“Yes,” Shianni said softly.

“Well, erm…I don’t know if this will _help_ , really, but I did stab Vaughan Kendells not long after I rescued Soris.”

“I…” Shianni looked at him for a moment. “That actually does make me feel a little better.”

“We killed Arl Howe, too. Denerim goes through Arls pretty quick lately, doesn’t it?”

Shianni snickered. “All right. These foreigners say they’re here to help with our outbreak of plague. Funny thing, though, all the people they ‘help’ disappear.”

“That’s not true, and you know it, Shianni!” Another elf interjected. “Both my sisters got the Tevinter spell cast on them, and they’re fine.”

“Where’s your niece, then?” Shianni challenged. “And my Uncle Cyrion? And Valendrian?”

“Where did this plague come from?” Daylen asked.

“From the Blight,” Shianni explained. “That’s what they say, anyway. People started getting it after the refugees showed up from Ostagar, so I guess that makes sense.”

“Those robes are of Tevinter make,” Wynne said, staring at the two men out front of the building.

“These men from Tevinter say their magic will prevent people from catching it. But it doesn’t work if you’re already ill. So they set up a quarantine. But many of the ones they quarantine aren’t sick. One of them was our _hahren_ , Valendrian. And I don’t know what we’re going to do if we don’t get him back.”

“So a plague shows up, these gentlemen arrive and somehow know how to treat it but refuse to reveal how, and your elder suddenly goes missing,” Daylen summed up. “Yeah, I’d bet this is what we’re looking for. I’ll try talking to the healers.”

“You can try,” Shianni said doubtfully. “Those guards mean business.”

“I’m pretty persuasive, but just in case, is there any other way into that house?”

“There’s a side entrance in the alley,” Shianni replied. “It’s got only one guard.”

“If the front door doesn’t work, he shouldn’t be a problem,” Daylen mused, “But let’s try the diplomatic approach before we start kicking in doors.”

“I ask you to stand back,” one of the Tevinter mages said as Daylen approached. “Some of these people are carrying the plague. The Alienage is not safe for visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor, I’m a healer myself,” Daylen replied. “Aren’t you afraid of catching it?”

“If we did not know how to prevent the plague, we would not be here now,” the other mage chided.

“What school of magic does this spell belong to?” Wynne asked. “Our Circle knows of none which fully prevent plagues.”

“You will have to excuse us, but we are not authorized to share the secrets of our Circle with outsiders,” the first mage said stiffly. “For your own safety, we must ask you to leave now.”

Daylen forced a smile. “Very well.” The group walked around the house, finding an elf in heavy mail on the other side of the house.

“No, you can’t go inside ‘just for a moment,’ so you might as well walk right back around to the front doors,” the elf said as Daylen opened his mouth. “You shouldn’t be out on the streets now anyway, what with the plague.”

“How much are they paying you?” Daylen asked.

“Not enough to put up with questions,” the elf replied. “What do you want?”

Daylen shook out a handful of coins. “Would you let me in that house for six sovereigns?”

“Six…sure. I never saw you, and you never saw me.”

“Saw who?” Daylen asked innocently as the elf handed over the key.

Four men were inside, all of them armed. None made it more than ten paces as Wynne and Daylen went to work, leaving the guards either frozen in place or on the floor, bodies smoldering from lightning impacts.

“Where are all the elves?” Alistair asked, looking around and casually shattering the last guard. “There’s nobody else here.”

“Wynne, check that desk,” Daylen ordered. “Alistair, keep an eye out. Zevran, Cupcake, come with me.” He opened the only door in the building that didn’t lead outside, and his face fell.

Several elves were locked inside cages. “Help us!” One begged. “Please, we’re not sick! Let us out of here!”

“Son of a…” Daylen looked around. “Stand back. I’m getting you out of there.” He froze the lock, before smashing the metal with a blow from his staff and pulling the cage door open.

“Thank you, my friend,” the elf said as he stepped out of the cage.

“Is this everyone they’ve taken?” Daylen asked, smashing open another cage.

“No, they take others,” the elf explained, helping the others out of their cages. “I don’t know where they go, and I don’t want to find out. We’re leaving. Maker keep you.”

“Go out the back,” Daylen warned. “The front door is guarded.”

“Daylen,” Wynne called from the main room as the elves left. “I found a key, money, and a note. ‘Bring eight males and six females for the next shipment.’”

“They’re kidnapping elves and shipping them someplace?” Daylen said. “Oh, not good.”

Alistair read the note quickly. “It’s a slaving ring.”

Daylen was looking at the front door. “Zevran?”

“Yes?” The elf growled.

“Come with me,” Daylen said sweetly. “I’m going to go have a word with those lovely folks outside.” Mana began boiling off of him, and multiple mage shields sprang into place around the Warden as he stepped partway into the Fade.

As the door opened, the two guards flanking the doorway turned, only for Zevran to cut both their throats at once, Daylen standing behind him and killing both Tevinter mages with a Mana Clash. The third guard drew his weapon, only for Daylen to encase him in solid ice from the neck down.

“People of the alienage, you have been lied to,” Daylen shouted. “These men are not healers! They are Tevinter _slavers_!” The crowd burst into shouting. The Warden turned to the remaining guard. “ _You_. Tell me where the kidnapped elves are.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” the guard spat.

“Zevran? You have any oil or pitch on you?” The elf handed over a bottle of oil, and the guard’s eyes widened as Daylen began pouring it over the man’s head.

“Daylen…” Wynne began.

“You want to tell me?” Daylen asked. The guard remained silent, but his eyes were wide with terror. “Alistair? Can I borrow your flint and steel?” The warrior fished them out of a belt pouch. “Last chance. You want to tell me where those kidnapped elves are?” Without waiting for an answer, Daylen began striking the flint and steel together, sending a stream of sparks onto the oil. The man flinched. “Oh, you got lucky. Let’s try again, shall we?” Another burst of sparks failed to light the oil. “Wow, two in a row. Shall we go for three?”

“I’ll talk!” the man screamed as Daylen lifted the steel again. “They get taken out the back, through the apartments! It leads out to the docks!”

Daylen kept the flint and steel raised. “How many have you taken? And how many are there of you?”

“Two dozen, maybe three! There’s about twenty of us!”

Daylen handed the flint and steel back to Alistair. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to go find some kidnapped elves. You do what you will with this scum.” He tipped over the frozen guard, the man grunting as he hit the ground.

The apartments were as filthy as the rest of the alienage, and in several cases it looked as if the occupants had simply gotten up and left. A quartet of guards was waiting in one apartment, but the men were quickly taken to pieces by the Warden’s party. The group emerged from the apartment building, finding another guard waiting outside.

“What’s this?” The man asked, several other men emerging behind him. “Another shipment already? We weren’t…wait, you’re no Tevinter. Who are you supposed to be?”

Daylen did a quick count. “Someone who doesn’t like slavers.” He cut loose with a gout of flame from his staff, setting the man on fire and sending the others falling back. Wynne crushed another guard’s ribcage with a conjured stone projectile, and Daylen hosed down the rest with lightning, leaving them twitching on the ground. Alistair and Zevran finished them off before any could stand up.

Daylen kicked in the door the men had been guarding, finding an elf waiting with several men on the other side. “What is the meaning of this?” She demanded. “We were told there would be no interference from the authorities!”

“Who said we were the authorities?” Daylen asked. “I’m just a concerned third party. Who doesn’t like slavers.”

“You Fereldans talk a great deal about how very wrong slaver is, but isn’t it funny how quickly the smell of gold overcomes such ideals?” the elf scoffed.

“I’m from Kirkwall,” Daylen replied. “Nice try, though. What do you want?”

“I am here to halt your slaughter, nothing more,” the elf snapped.

The Warden glared at her. Power radiated from the man. “You can step aside, or you can be destroyed.”

The elf glared back at him for a moment, before yielding. “I am no fool. I can see that you are capable. So be it. I will let Caladrius deal with you while I fetch the Regent’s men. I suggest you leave while you still can.”

More soldiers were further inside, and the group continued tearing through the guards. In the close quarters, Daylen slung his staff and drew the shield he had taken from Gaxkang and the sword they had recovered in Ostagar, hacking his way through the slaving operation alongside Zevran and Alistair.

They found the slaves in a large warehouse at the end of the apartment tunnel, locked in cages around the perimeter of the room. Several more guards were arrayed around a single mage. The man was bald, but had a thick goatee under a hooked nose. “I am Caladrius,” the mage called. “And you, I assume, must be the Grey Wardens I’ve heard so much about.”

Daylen raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of me?”

“One can hardly get a word out of Regent Loghain besides ‘Warden’ these days. I surpassed even ‘gold’ in popularity.”

“Then you should know what happens to people who stand in my way,” Daylen growled. “What exactly have you heard?”

“I have heard that you are trying to erode Loghain’s support. It must be a difficult task, yes? Like washing away a mountain.”

“Frankly, I’ve found that most are already against him, or needed little persuasion.”

“Perhaps you could use some help.”

“Oh, this ought to be good,” Daylen snorted.

“Sarcasm is beneath us both, my dear Warden. Truth be told, there was always a limit to how long we were going to be able to operate here,” Caladrius admitted. “We’ve paid for many of Loghain’s troops, but once the Landsmeet is done we become…inconvenient. So here is my offer: one hundred sovereigns from you for a letter with the seal of the Teyrn of Gwaren upon it, implicating him in all of this. Then we leave a few days earlier than planned, with our profits and remaining slaves, unharmed.”

“I suggest you look those elves in the eyes before you agree to have them hauled off to slavery, my friend,” Zevran warned.

“I feel dirty,” Alistair added. “We’re not considering this, are we?”

“So, do we have a deal?” Caladrius asked. “Even you must admit it’s much better than resorting to barbarism, yes?”

“I have a counter-offer,” Daylen replied.

“Interesting.”

“You leave everything. The money, the elves, the documents. You get to leave with your lives, and consider yourself lucky for that.”

“Now that’s not much of a _deal_ , is it?” Caladrius said, sighing. “Let’s do this the hard way, then. Men? Shall we?” He turned, only for icy spikes to erupt from the floor, impaling the guards. Seven men screamed as they died, and Caladrius looked back at the Warden with genuine fear in his eyes. “Well, maybe-” Two separate Mana Clashes hit him, driving him to his knees in pain, blood leaking from his nose and ears. He coughed and rasped as Daylen crossed the room. “Enough! Enough!”

“A slaver wants mercy,” Daylen scoffed.

“It seems your reputation is an accurate one,” Caladrius gasped. “I surrender.”

Daylen grabbed Caladrius by the beard, hauling his head up. “Give me one good reason not to rip you limb from limb.”

“Wait! Hear me out, kind ser! Were I to…use the life force of the remaining slaves here, I could augment your physical health a great deal! Allow me to leave this place alive and I would be more than happy to do this little service for you.”

“Where are those documents?” Daylen asked. The mage fished them out of his pocket, handing them over. “Good.” Daylen cast another spell, a nasty entropic curse that Caladrius clearly recognized as it took effect. “This is what Grey Wardens do with slavers.”

Caladrius screamed as the spell violently reorganized his innards, the slaver exploding in a gory mess as the spell tore him apart from the inside out.

“Get them out of those cages,” Daylen ordered, smashing open a lock.

“You don’t look like a Tevinter,” an older elf remarked as he emerged. “Not that it means much. Are you one of them? What happens to us now?”

Daylen stared at the elf. “Have you sustained a head injury? I just _exploded_ the head slaver. What about that makes you think I’m working with him?” Daylen looked over the elves. “I’m guessing you’re Valendrian?” The man nodded. “Shianni was looking for you.”

“Shianni?” Valendrian asked. “Did she send you here? Praise the Maker. We will not trespass long on your good graces. Come, everyone, let’s go home.”

“Be careful,” Daylen warned. “Loghain’s men may be on their way. This was done with his approval. Try to evade notice.”

“We know how to avoid the guards,” Valendrian replied tersely.

“In that case, can we come with you?”

—ROTG—

“I’m sorry if I was rude to you before,” Shianni said as Valendrian and her father passed by. “Andraste’s ass, you’d think I’d learn some social graces! Anyway, what I mean by all this is…thank you.”

“I don’t like slavers,” Daylen replied, spotting bloodstains on the ground near where the last Tevinter guard had been. “I wasn’t going to let them walk away with innocents in chains.”

“You’re not bad, for a human,” Shianni allowed.

Daylen grinned. “Aww, you’re going to make me blush. Will the alienage be all right with the plague?”

“We’ve been through outbreaks of pestilence during the war with Orlais,” Shianni said. “We’ll endure. I doubt very much now that the Tevinter intervention would have helped us anyway.”

The beggar caught their attention as they passed by. “Oh, it’s good to see you again, friend,” he said, flanked by two other elves. “You were so generous to me before and these are…other veterans.”

“I’m an orphan!” One of the beggars piped up.

“Oh, and, er, an orphan. Please, milord, can you spare some coin?”

“Are you really a veteran?” Daylen asked.

“I am insulted,” the beggar said indignantly. “A veteran campaigner am I. And Ollie is as bereft of parents as anyone’s ever been.”

“My mom is _especially_ dead,” Ollie added.

“No need to mention that, Ollie,” the beggar cut him off.

Daylen shrugged. “Who am I to judge. Here.” He handed over a few sovereigns. “Here’s your chance at a better life.”

“Oh, you’re too kind, just too kind.”

“We’ve still got some time, yet,” Daylen remarked to his companions. “Shianni, I realize this might be unwise considering recent events, but would a pair of mage healers be useful around here?”

“I think it might be awkward at the moment,” Shianni admitted. “If you were elven, maybe, but two humans? I don’t think so.” She looked over her shoulder. “There _is_ something else you might be able to help with, however. There’s this Templar that’s been hanging around, saying he’s been looking for something. You think you could have a talk with him? He’s making people nervous.”

The Templar Shianni directed them to was an older man, his head shaved bald. Daylen coughed politely as they approached, and the man turned. “Is someone there? Maker’s blessing to you, child.” Daylen flinched as he saw the man’s eyes were milky white and were viciously scarred around the eyelids. “Be not afraid. I still have some sight to see you by.”

“What happened to your eyes?” Daylen asked gently.

“I appreciate your candor,” the templar said. “Most stare. Or worse, the awkward silence. I am Ser Otto. I lost my sight in a battle with a powerful maleficar. He called flame from the air and burned my face. The scars have healed, but my sight will never recover.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Daylen replied.

“Don’t be. Many of my brethren died in that battle.”

“I’m a healer of some skill, perhaps I could help?”

Otto was taken aback. “A mage? Here?”

“I’m a Grey Warden,” Daylen explained. “May I?”

“You may try, but I do not believe-” Daylen pressed his hands to the sides of Otto’s head. The Warden focused, feeling healing magic pulsing in his body. A carefully focused pulse of healing magic ran through Otto’s eyes, and the Templar gasped, grabbing Daylen by the wrists.

“Easy, easy!” Daylen winced as Otto panted heavily, his eyes darting back and forth. “Any improvement?”

“A great deal,” Otto said, blinking hard and letting go of the mage’s hands. “I…I thank you, Warden.”

“I doubt you’ll ever see as good as you did, but any improvement would be good.”

Otto scrubbed at his eyes, wiping away tears. “I had thought I would never see this well again. Thank you.”

“So what brings you here?” Daylen asked, rubbing his wrists.

“We’d heard rumors that there’s an enclave of maleficarum hidden in the alienage.”

“Why did they send you instead of someone more…healthy?”

“I volunteered for it,” Otto explained. “I was most adamant. I took my vows to serve the Chantry, not sit idly by.”

“Are you in any condition to fight maleficarum?”

“I wasn’t,” Otto admitted. “I would still not attempt it alone, but I have years of hard-won experience. Often the chase is as difficult as the resolution. So I do the Maker’s work in whatever way I can.”

“We’ve…fought quite a few maleficarum over the past year,” Daylen offered. “Have you found anything?”

“I have found no evidence of maleficarum in the alienage. However, there _is_ something else. This place…it’s scarred, like me. When I came here, I immediately could feel an air of…hopelessness, despair. But over time, I’ve felt the wrongness runs far deeper than that.”

“I’ve felt it too,” Daylen said. “And you know, I saw some fresh blood and smelled rotten eggs by the old orphanage, but I wasn’t sure. That nutty beggar out there kind of put me off looking closer.” His eyes narrowed, and he looked to Wynne. “Wynne, the riots. Howe’s purge. Could that have thinned the Veil?”

“There’s been no fighting in the alienage recently,” Otto mused. “Which means the blood is not congealing. One odd thing I am willing to believe, but two is no coincidence. Let’s head to the orphanage.”

“You sure you’re up for this?” Daylen asked.

“With your help? I am sure we can handle this. Let us proceed.”

—ROTG—

_Alienage Culture  
There have always been alienages. They have been around for as long as elves and shems have lived in the same lands. Ours isn't even the worst: They say that Val Royeaux has ten thousand elves living in a space no bigger than Denerim's market. Their walls are supposedly so high that daylight doesn't reach the vhenadahl until midday._

_But don't be so anxious to start tearing down the walls and picking fights with the guards. They keep out more than they keep in. We don't have to live here, you know. Sometimes a family gets a good break, and they buy a house in the docks, or the outskirts of town. If they're lucky, they come back to the alienage after the looters have burned their house down. The unlucky ones just go to the paupers' field._

_Here, we're among family. We look out for each other. Here, we do what we can to remember the old ways. The flat-ears who have gone out there, they're stuck. They'll never be human, and they've gone and thrown away being elven, too. So where does that leave them? Nowhere._

_\--Sarethia, hahren of the Highever alienage_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.


	32. The Landsmeet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping things up in the Alienage, we move on to the climax of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017. Aww yeah, two chapters in one day! As of now, I've gone through all previous chapters and done some minor edits, but I've also inserted footnotes that you'll see links to throughout the chapter. Usually just flagging references, but sometimes I'm being a wise-ass.

_The Tevinter Imperium  
The Imperium is little more than a dilapidated old slattern, crouching in the far north of Thedas, drunkenly cursing at passersby to recall her faded beauty._

_One can see that Minrathous was once the center of the world. The vestiges of her power and artistry yet stand. But they are buried in the layers of filth that the Imperium’s decadence has accumulated over the ages. The magocracy live in elegant stone towers, literally elevated above the stench of the slaves and peasants below. The outskirts of Minrathous are awash in a sea of refugees turned destitute by the never-ending war between the Imperium and the Qunari._

_And yet the Imperium survives. Whether with sword or magic, Tevinter remains a force to be reckoned with. Minrathous has been besieged by men, by Qunari, by Andraste herself, and never fallen._

_\--From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi._

—ROTG—

As they stepped into the orphanage, Wynne and Daylen both groaned. “The _feeling_ is intense here,” Otto announced. “This is the right place.”

“I’ll bet,” Daylen said. “The Veil is very thin here.”

Otto looked over at him. “Will you be all right?”

Daylen waved him off. “Oh, of course. I’ve dealt with worse than this. It’s just a bad sign. What happened here? What could have caused this?”

“I know not if it is the work of a maleficarum, but there is definitely evil here.” Otto took a step forward, stumbled over some debris, and sighed. “You go first. I will follow.”

Daylen opened the door to the next hallway, and spotted a ghostly elven child running away. “Oh, Maker, we’re back to this again.”

“You have encountered these before?” Otto asked, watching the hallway warily. He had not reached for the mace strapped across his back, but he was clearly ready to do so.

“Couple times,” Daylen replied. “It’s never good news.”

The hallway ahead was blocked, and the group took a detour through a side room. As they entered, they heard a child’s voice. “ _Do you hear me, Ser Wilhem, Ser Wilhem? I’m a-falling, Ser Wilhem, Ser Wilhem, today._ ”

“Oh, this is so not good,” Alistair sighed.

“ _I’m a maiden, Ser Wilhem, Ser Wilhem. But I’m dying, Ser Wilhem, Ser Wilhem, in pain._ ”

“I do not recall that being how the rhyme went,” Wynne said shakily.

The group emerged from the side room past the obstruction, and Daylen spotted another ghostly elven child running down the hallway, pleading. They pushed down the hall after the ghost, only for several rabid wardogs to burst out of the rooms on either side of the hallway. It didn’t take long to put them down, but Daylen’s first move was to shove his own dog back. The hound yelped as he rolled across the floorboards, and once the last rabid mabari hit the floor, Daylen knelt in front of his dog, scratching the pup’s ears. “I’m so sorry, boy, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just didn’t want you catching rabies. I would never forgive myself if you got sick because of me.” Cupcake whimpered, but licked his face. “You ever see a rabid dog like that again, you just hang back and let me handle it, all right?” Cupcake barked happily, and Daylen ruffled his ears. “Good boy.”

Another ghost was in the next room, but unlike the others they had encountered, this one was hostile. The female specter laughed maniacally as it charged at them. “So red, so very, very red!” Otto’s mace swept through the ghost’s head, and it dissolved. “I can’t die. I will never die!”

“A tormented soul,” Otto said quietly. “This is not good.”

“Let’s keep moving,” Daylen replied, wondering if the whispers he was hearing were demons or just his imagination. “We have to find the source of all this.”

Another ghostly child’s voice was waiting in the next hallway. “ _One, two, Maric’s run through. Three, four, the kingdom’s at war! Eight, nine, and now you die!_ ” Laughter echoed off the walls, and Alistair nudged Daylen.

“Are you as scared as I am?”

“More, I think,” Daylen admitted. “If we don’t find what’s causing this soon, I may just knock down a wall and make my own way out of here.”

More hostile spirits waited for them on the other side of the hallway, standing near charred corpses and among bloodstains on the floor. After the group dispatched them, Daylen knelt over one of the bodies, trying to ignore the smell. “I think this may have been an elf. What happened?”

“There was a massacre,” Otto explained. “The forces sent in to put down the riots were…overzealous.”

“They killed _children_?” Daylen asked. The whispers grew louder, and Daylen shook himself. “Not the time to get angry about this. Come on.”

The whispers only became more clear as they entered the next room, and Daylen’s stomach turned at the stench of old blood and rot in the room, along with the pervasive stench of bad eggs. “There was a demon here,” he said.

“This. This is the center of it,” Otto declared.

“ _Leave, mortal, you do not belong here_!” A voice echoed.

Daylen glanced around. “Please tell me you all heard that.”

“I did,” Alistair replied.

“Blessed be the Maker and His prophet Andraste,” Otto prayed.

“ _Your pathetic Maker is nothing compared to my glory_!” The voice boomed.

“I command you, show yourself, demon!” Otto cried. “Hide in the shadows no more!”

“ _You dare to command me? Let us see if your precious Maker can protect you now, worm!_ ” A rage demon burst into view, only to be hit with two simultaneous mage-killer spells and two simultaneous Holy Smites.

“You are a Templar?” Otto asked, looking to Alistair.

“Trained, never took my vows before joining the Wardens,” the warrior explained.

“I see,” Otto said. “We won, it seems. At one time, I considered myself quite the warrior, but you accomplished here what I never could. But…something still isn’t right.”

“I know,” Daylen agreed. “There’s still something pressing on the Veil.”

“I feel there is more to this. Nearby. Perhaps the building next to us.” Otto strode to the door, pressing a hand to it. “I can feel it, just on the other side of this wall.”

Blood was soaked into the walls and floorboards of the next hallway, pooling in various locations. Bones and rotted bodies were scattered across the floor, and whimpering was audible from another ghost. “ _Nan, who are they?”_

Another voice answered. “ _Please, leave the children. Take me, but just…_ ”

The child cried out, and Daylen surged forward, pushing into the next room, fully intent on making a hasty exit.

Another tormented spirit and two shades were waiting on the other side, and Daylen froze them solid, before beating the lot of them to pieces with the end of his staff. “What is _wrong_ with this city?” He asked nobody in particular, smashing the last shade. “Do you know how much death – violent death, at that – it takes to weaken the Veil this much? Maker’s breath, the amount of blood we’ve seen so far alone here…why would Howe’s men think it necessary to do this?”

“Power-hungry men do strange things to achieve their desires,” Wynne replied.

“I wish he hadn’t died so quickly,” Daylen spat. “He deserved worse.”

The group cut their way through more shades and spirits, as well as a quartet of rage abominations hiding in the rubble that were dispatched quickly by the group.

When they reached the final room, Daylen felt another presence and looked to Otto, who was frowning deeply. “I feel it too,” the templar said.

“ _You think you are safe?_ ”

“Though the Golden City has fallen, I have seen your face and your light, I am your-”

“ _Save your pedantic Chant for your sermons, Templar. You have killed my brood._ ”

“Actually, that was me,” Daylen chimed in. “How about you come out so I can kill you too?”

“The Maker compels you,” Otto commanded. “Show yourself!”

“ _The Maker? There is_ no _Maker. There is no Golden City. But there are demons, yes…”_

 A book flew from the floor and Otto casually batted it aside. “I hear not your blasphemy. By Andraste and all the Divine after Her, I order you to face me!”

“ _You delusional fool_!” The rage demon erupted from the floor, flames spreading across the floorboards. Two Holy Smites rained down on the demon as Wynne and Daylen hemmed in the fire with bursts of frost, quenching the flames before it could get out of control. Zevran drew his bow and put an arrow between the demon’s glowing eyes, and the creature collapsed, dissolving a moment later.

“We have done it again,” Otto said, panting. “I feel the darkness receding. I have seen the work of demon before. Some maleficarum consort with them. But the Maker must have guided-” The Templar gurgled as a pitchfork stabbed through his armor, the tool thrust harder than any mortal could have. The Warden’s party watched, stunned, as the rage demon flared back into view, lifting Ser Otto up and shaking him on the pitchfork, the man’s spine snapping audibly over the roar of the flames.

Several other demons emerged, and Daylen cut loose with a wave of frost, quenching the flames and annihilating two lesser rage demons as Wynne did the same in the opposite direction. Zevran and Alistair engaged the demon that had killed Otto, hacking at the demon’s body until it collapsed.

Daylen was kneeling over Otto’s body, gently removing the pitchfork from the man’s back. “May the Maker take you into His arms, Otto,” he said quietly, closing the man’s eyes.

Alistair wiped demonic ichor from his sword, sheathing the blade. “I thought you didn’t like Templars.”

“I don’t, but this man conducted himself with honor,” Daylen replied. “One of the first Templars I met who didn’t look like he wanted to kill me just for being a mage.” The Warden stood, finding a worn amulet on the ground near Otto’s body. “We’ll have to alert the Chantry to come recover the body.”

As they emerged, the deranged beggar they had encountered earlier looked up. “The bad men…they are quiet. They call for blood no more.”

“Is this amulet yours?” Daylen asked, the trinket hanging from his hand. “I found it inside.”

“It’s my grandmother’s. You found it, ser.” Daylen pressed it into her hand, and the elf’s eyes brightened. “I feel…I feel like a mist is lifting. Oh, thank you, ser. I have to…to live my life.”

As she departed, Daylen rubbed at his face. “So, we’ve crushed a Tevinter slaving operation, rescued some kidnapped elves, and stopped a demonic incursion. All told, not a bad morning.”

“The last of the banns and arls should arrive tonight or early tomorrow,” Alistair said as they headed for the bridge to leave the alienage. “Do you think there’s more we can do?”

“There he is!” A voice called. Daylen looked over, seeing a crowd of elves. “Now, no crowding, let the good ser breathe,” the beggar that Daylen recognized said. “There are a _lot_ of unfortunates in the Alienage, ser. Many...veterans, orphans, the diseased, and sad tales of all sorts.”

“I still don’t have my parents,” Ollie chimed in.

“Yes, ser, and poor Ollie still doesn’t have his parents. Anything you can spare would be appreciated.”

“And the whole lot of you are beggars?” Daylen asked skeptically.

“After the riots, many people were left without a home, ser,” Ollie replied. “Don’t have a copper between us.”

“You’re like a hero here, good ser,” the beggar continued. “Ollie and I hadn’t eaten for a week before you showed up.”

“And that fellow with the fine outfit?” Daylen asked, pointing at another elf.

“I…uh…found it?” The elf in question tried.

“You aren’t a real beggar,” Ollie snapped.

“All I heard was there was free coin over here,” the imposter sighed. “Fine.”

“Every one of us, except the one you rightly pointed out, all of us are unfortunates.”

Daylen stared at the elf for a long time. “All right. I’m not an idiot, but I can spare fifty silvers. Here.”

The elves cheered. “All of us are eating tonight!”

—ROTG—

“I was starting to worry,” Eamon said as they entered the study. “I’ve been hearing of a great commotion in the alienage. What exactly happened there?”

“Plenty,” Daylen replied, dropping the documents on the table. “Proof that Loghain was involved in slave trading.”

“Maker forgive me,” Eamon remarked. “I should be appalled that such a thing could exist here, but I’m overjoyed that you can implicate Loghain. We must end the civil war quickly. What the Blight does not corrupt in this land, politics surely will. The last of our allies have arrived in the city, and we cannot delay any longer. I will call for the Landsmeet to convene early tomorrow.”

—ROTG—

The day of the Landsmeet, Daylen arose from the luxurious bed at Arl Eamon’s estate and nudged his dog awake, the hound grumbling as he got up to go terrorize the estate’s gardeners. The estate’s kennel master had promised to wrestle the dog into a bath, and Daylen felt a moment’s pity for the man as he pulled on his robes.

His first stop was the kitchens, where a handful of elves were already working. A few flinched at his arrival, but a few moments of reassuring and a self-deprecating joke soothed them and yielded a bowl of fresh porridge, a few fresh eggs and a crust of bread.

He was swallowing the last of his second cup of tea of the day as he heard the kitchen supervisor cursing.

“Something wrong?” He asked, finding a teary-eyed elf clutching a bloodied hand.

“Plenty,” the supervisor growled. “This one just sliced his hand open. You’re no good to me like this, you idiot!” The elf flinched at the woman’s reprimand, and Daylen’s eyes narrowed at her.

“Do you not have a healer on staff?”

“He was assigned to the forces at Ostagar,” the supervisor sighed. “I imagine you know how that ended.”

“Yes, I think I do,” Daylen replied. “Not to worry. I can heal you.” He paused. “Um, unless you object to being healed with magic.” The elf shook his head, and Daylen gently took the elf’s injured hand, wincing as he saw the blood welling from the wound. “I imagine that hurts a bit. Help’s on the way.” He closed his eyes, drawing upon his healing magic, and moments later the elf gasped as he felt the magic surging through his hand. Daylen opened his eyes and found the flesh knitting itself together. He grinned as the elf flexed the hand and wiped the blood off with a look of utter shock on his face. “Just be more careful from now on.” He clapped a hand on the supervisor’s shoulder. “And as for you. Let’s have a chat.” The two stepped away from the rest, and the supervisor looked concerned as Daylen spoke softly. “Bit rough on them, aren’t you?”

“I expect the best from them,” the supervisor said stiffly. “There is little margin for error in our work.”

Daylen’s smile never faded as he spoke. “I understand you’re working a job and a lot is expected of you. But if I ever hear that you’ve mistreated these elves again, there won’t be a mage in the world who will be able to heal what I do to you.”

He left the shaken supervisor behind and found Alistair hunched over a table in Eamon’s study with Leliana, Elissa, Oghren, and Eamon, a sheaf of readiness reports spread out in front of them. “What’s our state of affairs, everyone?”

“The Dalish are ready for war,” Leliana said. “Keeper Lanaya reports they have sent scouts to shadow the edges of the darkspawn horde and track their movements. They’ve noted darkspawn bands near Dragon’s Reach, including a possible entrance to the Deep Roads.”

Eamon nodded as Leliana finished her report. “My knights need perhaps two more days to prepare. I cannot properly state how useful the additional resources have been. My men have excellent armor and weapons, thanks to you.”

“The mages are ready,” Alistair added. “First Enchanter Irving mentions slight difficulty in getting the lyrium they needed, but the issue was simply disrupted supply lines due to the civil war.”

“And the dwarves?” Daylen asked.

“The dwarves are always ready for war against darkspawn,” Oghren replied. “Most of their troops are already waiting at Redcliffe.”

“There’s space for everyone, although the main body of the Dalish forces have taken up outside the village,” Elissa took over. “They’ve deployed into the Hinterlands, keeping separate from the human forces.”

“Any incidents?” Daylen asked.

“Not with the Dalish,” Elissa said delicately. “There was an…altercation, between some dwarven forces and the local bartender. Something about not having enough ale in reserve.”

Daylen nodded. “Makes sense. Dwarven ale is horrible, they’re probably enjoying what they can on the surface. So all we have left to do is settle things here.”

“Which will be easier said than done,” Eamon warned.

“We have the support of everyone we need,” Daylen said. “Many of the banns and arls have pledged their support. We have the truth on our side.”

“Truth is subjective,” Eamon retorted. “And you may not know how some will vote until the time comes. Do not underestimate Loghain.”

Daylen opened his mouth to snap back at Eamon, before closing it. “You are correct. My apologies. I got put in charge of fighting this war, I sometimes forget that being in charge doesn’t mean I know everything I need to.”

“Could have fooled me,” Alistair quipped.

Daylen shot his friend a mock glare. “That hurts, Alistair. That’s hurtful.”

“Anyway,” Eamon interjected, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “We have the support of many nobles and the evidence to discredit Loghain. But do you have the support of his daughter?”

“The word of the queen herself would help our case,” Daylen admitted. “But she’s a snake. Not even a reliable one like Bhelen. She’ll do whatever is best for her at that moment.”

“So our job is to make sure that we are what are best for her,” Alistair said.

“We’ve done all we can to prepare. You should get cleaned up.” Eamon eyed the group. “And you’ll need some better clothes,” he announced.

Daylen flinched. “Oh no. We are _not_ spending some ridiculous amount of time and money that could be directed towards fighting the Blight on some inane shopping trip.” Leliana pouted. “We are going as we are. I will bet any and all of you ten sovereigns that Loghain is going to show up in armor. We will be going the same way. Is that clear?”

“If you insist,” Eamon sighed.

“I do insist! Loghain isn’t going to give up his power without a fight. He’s already staged one coup. Anyone want to bet he won’t go for two?”

“We’ll have Queen Anora’s backing,” Eamon pointed out.

“Anora?” Daylen scoffed. “Chip off the old blockhead. Both she and Loghain are convinced that anything they do in pursuit of their goals is justified. Why? Because they’re what’s best for Ferelden, so anything they do in the process of holding on to their positions of power is justified as best for Ferelden. And just as Anora will betray her father to hold on to her throne, she will throw us to the wolves just as quickly if she thought it would better her chances.”

“Agreed,” Alistair said. “She’s her father’s daughter, through and through. People like that think they’re the only ones who can fix the problem, and that everyone else should just stay out of their way.”

“No honor to be found in this place,” Sten commented from the door. The Qunari was already in full armor, his blade strapped across his back.

“I’m having a hard time arguing with him,” Daylen admitted. “We can’t trust Anora, and I would be very surprised if she trusted us.”

“As much as I would like to think better of her, I must agree with the Warden,” Eamon replied tiredly. “Queen Anora will do what she sees necessary to maintain her hold on the crown.” He glanced at the window. “It is almost time. Daylen, Alistair, bring your companions and join me at the palace as soon as you are ready.”

The party cleaned up, bathing, shaving when necessary, and pulling on clean clothes and freshly-maintained armor. Daylen settled his robes on over the dragonskin mail Wade had smithed, the armor concealed under the fabric. Nearby, Morrigan had on her usual set of robes, tightening the enchanted gauntlets they had procured recently. Wynne was wearing her usual set of Circle-issued Senior Enchanter robes and watching as Oghren tightened the buckles on his new armor. Zevran, Leliana, and Elissa were already wearing their leathers, and Cupcake had his best collar on, his fur painted with kaddis by a helpful kennel master.

Alistair emerged, buckling on his sword belt, his shield slung across his back and his helmet under one arm. He tugged on one vambrace, making sure it was seated properly. “You ready?”

Daylen nodded, his heart pounding. “Are you?”

“No, but let’s do this anyway,” Alistair said.

—ROTG—

As the group entered the palace, Daylen found Ser Cauthrien in their path.

“Warden, I am not surprised it has come to this.” She looked to Alistair. “And Alistair. If you were even remotely worthy of being called Maric’s son, you would already _be_ in the Landsmeet, wouldn’t you?”

“I have a name,” Daylen said. “My name is Daylen Amell. Yes, I’m a Grey Warden. I’m the most powerful mage you’ve ever met, probably ever will meet, and I’m barely twenty. I’m also restrained solely by a moral code that these days is becoming more and more flexible. If Loghain was worthy of being in there, he wouldn’t have committed treason. Someone who would abandon his King is not someone we should trust with the lives of this nation. _Now get out of my way_.”

“You have torn Ferelden apart to oppose the very man who ensured you were born into freedom. You’ve never once understood why he is a hero to Ferelden!” Cauthrien said. “But do not think you will get past me to desecrate the Landsmeet itself.”

“ _Was_  a hero,” Daylen corrected. “And maybe he was to you, but I was born in Kirkwall, and no Circle mage lives in freedom. The actions Loghain undertook at Ostagar, at the Alienage, across Ferelden, while you stood by and did  _nothing_ to stop him were not the actions of a hero! Yes, once Loghain fought for Fereldan independence. For Fereldan sovereignty. For Fereldan freedom. Then he abandoned his king – his own son-in-law! He abandoned him to die at the hands of darkspawn, out of his own paranoia and lust for power! You know this, Cauthrien, I know you do! You were _there_ , at Ostagar! You _know_ what happened! I saw King Cailan’s body! The darkspawn had him strung up like a blasted trophy, and _Loghain left him to that fate!_ ”

“Daylen, we’re running out of time,” Alistair urged.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” Daylen snapped. “Let me speak. Do you really not see what Loghain has become?”

“I have had…so many doubts of late,” Cauthrien admitted. “Loghain is a great man, but his hatred of Orlais has driven him to madness. He has done terrible things, I know it, but I owe him everything. I cannot betray him, do not ask me to!”

Daylen’s voice softened. “Look, you don’t understand us. That’s not important right now. Loghain, you can understand, real good. Most people go through life sort of partly-involved, I don’t know, maybe they like it that way. But you’re in a spot now where you have to choose a position. Either draw and try to stop us, or stand aside and let us through so we can put this to an end. But you have to ask yourself – do you want to spend the rest of your life in a country ruled by a madman? By a man willing to leave his son to die at the hands of those creatures?”

“No.” The word slipped from her lips, almost by accident.

“Then let me stop him,” Daylen urged. “You know it’s the only way. I ask you to do nothing but stand aside and let us pass.” There was a pause as Cauthrien fretted. “For pity’s sake, Cauthrien, you finally have the chance to decide for yourself to do the right thing! Don’t tell me that you’re going to keep following Loghain after all he’s done!”

“I never thought duty would taste so bitter,” Cauthrien sighed. “Stop him, Warden. Stop him from betraying everything he once loved.” She stood aside, dropping to one knee. “Please…show mercy. Without Loghain, there would be no Ferelden to defend.”

“Wynne,” Daylen said as they approached the door. “I’m going to need your healing skills in a bit.”

“I would rather you not be so certain about that, young man,” Wynne sighed.

“Well, I’m just being honest,” Daylen replied. “After I’m done with Loghain, I’m going to need your help to remove my foot from his arse.” Zevran snorted, and Wynne sighed again.

The Warden paused at the door and looked at Alistair. “Going in alive?”

“Coming out the same way,” Alistair said, bumping his helmet against Daylen’s.

Then they opened the doors and entered the Landsmeet.

“My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet,” Arl Eamon was saying. “Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, our traditions, out of fear!” Daylen noted that the man had arrived in armor, not the finery many of the attendees were wearing. “He placed us on this path, yet we must place our destiny in _his_ hands? Must we sacrifice everything good about our nation to save it?”

“A fine performance, Eamon,” Loghain drawled, clapping slowly. “But no one here is taken in by it. You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne, and every soul here knows it. The better question is, who will pull the strings?” He spotted the party crossing the hall and raised his voice. “Ah! And here we have the puppeteer! Tell us, Warden, how will the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince? What did they offer you? How much is the price of Fereldan honor now?”

“Loghain, you’re fighting the wrong war,” Daylen said, halting as several soldiers formed into a line between him and Loghain. “Instead of fighting yesterday’s battles, perhaps you should focus on the real threat! Those of us who bother to stay on the front lines know that the true threat is the Blight!”

“There are enough refugees in my Bannorn now to make that abundantly clear,” Bann Alfstanna called.

“The south is fallen, Loghain!” Arl Wulff added. “Will you let the darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?”

“The Blight is indeed real, Wulff,” Loghain replied. “But do we need the Wardens to fight it? They say they alone can defeat the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly at Ostagar-”

“We failed because you quit the field, Loghain!” Daylen shouted. “Don’t you lie about this again! The truth will have its day, I swear it!  _You_  abandoned the king,  _you_  retreated when the battle was joined! The Grey Wardens can defeat the Blight, but not while a failure of a general frames them for regicide and declares them outlaws!”

“Really, Loghain, you’re believing your own lies by now,” Elissa broke in coldly. “How much of your crimes were yours, and how many were Howe’s? To lead off, poisoning Arl Eamon by an apostate blood mage - a plan you started before you even left for Ostagar. Howe’s attack on Highever, where he slaughtered my family, including my _six-year-old nephew_!”

“And let us not forget framing the Couslands for collusion with the Orlesians,” Daylen added, “with a little help from an Orlesian bard.” Indignant gasps and mutters followed that news. “Then there was wrongfully imprisoning and torturing Bann Sighard’s son, as well as your accomplice Howe doing the same thing to not only Bann Alfstanna’s brother, but also the rightful Arl of Denerim! Vaughan Kendells was found dead in Howe’s dungeon!”

“The Warden speaks truly!” Sighard called, his voice cracking in anguish. “My son was taken under cover of night. The things done to him...some of them are beyond any healer’s skill!”

“Howe was responsible for himself,” Loghain declared, pacing agitatedly. “He will answer to the Maker for his actions, as must we all.”

“Some sooner than others,” Daylen said coldly. “You think the Maker will look favorably on what you’ve done? On letting a mad dog like Howe loose on your political enemies? On conspiring with the blood mage Uldred to remove the Circle from Chantry oversight? On selling Ferelden citizens into slavery to fund your private bid for the throne? We have the evidence for all of this!”

“What evidence?” Loghain scoffed. “The lies and tortured confessions of bandits and blood mages?”

Daylen smiled sweetly. “Something a little more substantial. For your sullen pact with Uldred, we have his papers and the word of First Enchanter Irving of the Fereldan Circle of Magi, verified by the Knight-Commander, Greagoir. You attempted to send a blood mage to poison Arl Eamon! Bann Alfstanna, how is your brother’s health?”

“As well as can be expected after what was done to him,” Alfstanna replied. “My brother is a respected Templar and says you snatched a blood mage from the Chantry’s justice. Coincidence?”

“Do not think the Chantry will overlook this, Teyrn Loghain,” the Grand Cleric warned. “Interference in a Templar’s sacred duties is an offense against the Maker.”

“The Tevinter slaver you were selling Fereldan citizens to left his documents behind when I killed him,” Daylen went on, holding them aloft. “They bear _your_ seal. Perhaps you should have stopped Howe from looting the treasury if you were so short of funds! Silver bars bearing the seal of the Fereldan treasury have been found circulating in the market after he stole them!”

Loghain’s eyes were darting back and forth, seeing the disapproving looks numerous nobles were leveling at him. “What of  _you_ , Warden? What have you done to save this land?”

Daylen gave a short, bitter laugh. “What have I done? While you lot have been playing at politics and stabbing each other in the back over who gets to rule what’s left of the country once the darkspawn are finished with it, I’ve been _doing my job_! Arl Eamon’s knights, the Dalish elves, what’s left of the Circle of Magi after your stooge Uldred made his play, and the dwarves of Orzammar stand ready to fight the Blight – you remember, _the real threat_? What have you done besides put your head in the sand and scream about Orlesians? Don’t worry, man, I looked under the bed, they’re not hiding down there!”

“No! Sometimes they hide behind the title of Grey Wardens and kidnap our royalty!”

“Oh, we’ll get to Anora in a moment,” Daylen spat. “But since you brought it up – you clearly didn’t care much about her being Queen. Your man in Orzammar was already referring to you as ‘King Loghain.’ Just how long did you plan to steal the throne for yourself? And what, pray tell, did you plan on doing with the Queen once you took power?”

 _That_ got people talking. It was one thing to conspire, to plot, to commit acts of questionable need and decency, but referring to oneself as king when one had no right simply wasn’t done.

“How _dare_ you suggest that-”

“I believe I can speak for myself,” Anora called from the entryway.

“Impeccable timing,” Zevran muttered.

“Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me,” Anora spoke, crossing the hall quickly. The soldiers parted to let her through. “My father is no longer the man you know. This man is not the Hero of River Dane. This man turned his troops aside and refused to protect your king as he fought bravely against the darkspawn.” Loghain looked as if he had been punched in the gut. “This man seized Cailan’s throne before his body was cold and locked me away so I could not reveal his treachery. I would have already been killed if not for this Grey Warden!”

“So, the Warden’s influence has poisoned even your mind, Anora?” Loghain asked quietly. “I wanted you to protect you from this.”

“Is that why you had her imprisoned?” Daylen asked pointedly. “Rendon Howe had her locked away in his estate and was plotting to kill her!”

“Silence!” Loghain snapped, before turning to address the Landsmeet. “My lords and ladies, our land has been threatened before! It’s been invaded, and lost, and won times beyond counting. We Fereldans have proven that we will never truly be conquered so long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now! Stand with me, and we will defeat even the Blight itself!”

“South Reach stands with the Grey Wardens!” Arl Bryland declared immediately.

“The Warden helped me personally with a...family matter,” another noble added. Daylen’s eyes narrowed, before Zevran coughed ‘Ignacio’ quietly. “I side with them!”

“Waking Sea stands with the Grey Warden!” Alfstanna called, adding her vote.

“Dragon’s Peak supports the Warden!” Sighard shouted.

“The Western Hills throws their lot in with the Wardens,” Wulff rumbled. “Maker help us.”

“I...stand by Loghain!” Bann Ceorlic said uneasily. “We’ve no hope of victory otherwise!”

More and more nobles threw in with the Grey Wardens, and Loghain grew more and more pale as his hopes crumbled.

“Loghain, I’m going to ask you once,” Daylen said softly. “The Landsmeet is against you. Step down peacefully. Let us end this madness.”

As soon as he said it, Daylen knew it would never happen. “Traitors!” Loghain bellowed. “Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives?” He rounded on Eamon. “ _You fought with us once, Eamon!_ You cared about this land once!” The Arl hadn’t even met his eyes, and Loghain’s face twisted. “Before you got too old and fat and content to even see what you risk.” He glared at the other nobles, stomping back and forth. ” _None of you_  deserve a saying in what happens here! _None_ _of you_ has spilled blood for this land the way I have! How dare you judge me?”

“I offered you the chance to end this in single combat, once,” Daylen said idly. “Have you reconsidered?”

The Teyrn’s head snapped around. “I think that sounds like a _wonderful_ idea,” Loghain growled. “I suppose we both knew it would come to this. Maric once said to me that a man is made by the quality of his enemies. I wonder if it’s more a compliment to you or me?” [1]

“You, definitely,” Daylen replied coldly. “You’re barely a bump in the road compared to what I’ve already faced and defeated.”

“Let the Landsmeet declare the terms of the duel,” Loghain called.

There were a few moments of discussion, before Bann Alfstanna raised her voice. “It shall be fought according to tradition. A test of arms in single combat until one party yields. And we who are assembled will abide by the outcome.”

“We accept,” Daylen said bluntly. He briefly considered the possibility of having Cupcake fight Loghain before deciding to be serious for the moment. “I’ll fight Loghain myself.”

“Daylen,” Alistair started.

“No.” Daylen’s answer was almost Qunari in its brevity. Alistair growled, but stepped back, standing alongside Zevran.

“Is this wise?” Zevran asked as Loghain barked a ‘prepare yourself!’ at Daylen.

“No, it’s not,” Alistair ground out. “Loghain’s an accomplished swordsman and an experienced general. Daylen, on the other hand, has relatively little experience in this style of combat.”

“Ah, but he is a mage, no?”

Alistair shook his head. “Loghain has experience in fighting mages. He’s no Templar, but he still has the advantage. Or at least he doesn’t have the disadvantage that Daylen thinks he does.”

The two men were circling each other as the crowd backed away. Loghain had drawn his sword. Daylen’s sword remained in its sheath, and the mage made no move to draw his staff.

“Do you remember what I said, Loghain?” Daylen’s voice was low as he spoke. “It’s just you and me, now.” He cracked his knuckles.

“You cannot best me, you know that,” Loghain replied.

“Not going to ‘best’ you,” Daylen said calmly. “Just going to kick your arse until you shit blood and boot leather.”

“Be quiet, whelp,” Loghain snarled, falling into a ready guard and charging.

Daylen held out a hand, dropping a paralyzing glyph on Loghain. The man froze in place as a field of magic pressed down on him. A blast of lightning issued from Daylen’s hand, electricity arcing across Loghain’s armor.  The man thrashed and broke free of the glyph, bulling forward. Daylen drew Wintersbreath, parrying a strike from Loghain’s sword and dodging a bash from the man’s shield. The mage jabbed at Loghain’s ankles, trying to trip him up, but the Teyrn’s superior footwork carried him away from the staff. Daylen parried another pair of strikes from Loghain, backing up as the man pressed the attack. Alistair’s brow furrowed as he watched the two men fighting. A brief blast of ice issued from the top of Daylen’s staff, and Loghain bore the brunt of it on his shield. Ice snapped and crackled as it spread across the shield’s surface, and Loghain cursed as the knee joint of his armor froze up.

Daylen drew back, opening space between himself and Loghain as the teyrn fought against his compromised armor. Loghain lumbered forward, stumping along with his leg still frozen in place, and Daylen slammed a lump of conjured stone into the man’s chest, the breastplate buckling inwards under the blow and staggering the warrior. Daylen followed up with a blast of lightning, but Loghain bore it again on his shield, the metal clearly enchanted to reflect magic. The teyrn regained his footing and barreled forward again, his sword raised. Daylen fell into the disarming stance he had been taught, jabbing the end of his staff forward to try to sweep the blade from Loghain’s grip. Loghain’s response was to loosen his grip, letting the blade slide around in his hand and letting Daylen’s staff slide off to one side, leaving the mage wide open. Daylen’s eyes widened as the point of the sword rammed into his stomach, doubling up from the strike.

“You fought well,” Loghain rasped. “For a whelp.”

Daylen chuckled, still bent around the blade. “You think I’m out? Dragonskin. Nice try, though.” Loghain jerked the blade back, and Daylen cried out as the edge caught him on the chin, slicing along his jaw. Cursing under his breath, Daylen wiped his jaw with the back of his hand, trying to ignore the blood trickling down his neck. Loghain lunged again, and Daylen stumbled back, managing to knock the warrior’s helmet off as he passed, and hooked his staff over the edge of Loghain’s shield, yanking the kite shield from the teyrn’s hand. Rather than get into a test of strength, Loghain simply let go, and Daylen stumbled back, dropping the shield and kicking it away.

Then he ducked, as Loghain’s longsword nearly took his head off. Knowing he was at a disadvantage, Daylen lunged forward, tackling the other man to the ground. His staff and Loghain’s sword went clattering away, and Daylen managed to bloody the teyrn’s nose before Loghain’s gauntleted fist caught him on the cheekbone.

Daylen had been struck by an ogre before. He had faced sylvans, demons, and darkspawn in battle. But Loghain’s punch knocked him flat on his back, his head spinning and his lip split. He managed to start focusing his vision just in time to see Loghain’s fist coming in again, knocking his skull against the stone floor of the chamber. Loghain struck him twice more, and through the pounding in his head Daylen felt the warrior’s gauntlets close around his throat and haul him partway up. The Warden’s sight cleared to see Loghain’s snarling face all too close to his own.

“I’m going to tear you apart,” Loghain hissed, shaking the mage by the throat.

Daylen grinned, blood staining his teeth. “Well I hope you can enjoy the victory with one _friggin’ eye_!” Spitting blood into Loghain’s face to catch him off guard, he jammed two fingers into the other man’s eye. Loghain grunted in pain, releasing him out of reflex. Daylen rolled back, using a trick he had learned back in Lothering. The heel of his boot came up and caught Loghain in the crotch, and the older man wheezed, staggering back. Drawing on what mana he had left, Daylen conjured a heavy lump of stone and sent it point-blank into the Loghain’s ribcage. [2]

The sound of breaking bones was audible across the chamber, and several nobles winced as Loghain fell to the ground, coughing and clutching his side. Daylen grabbed his staff, lightning crackling across the tip as he put it to Loghain’s throat. “I underestimated you, Warden,” Loghain coughed out. “I thought you were like Cailan, a child wanting to play at war. I was wrong. There’s a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere since Maric died. I yield.”

“You’ll die for what you’ve done,” Daylen said, panting as more mana surged into his staff. “For every Grey Warden that died at Ostagar, for every mage that died in Uldred’s uprising, for every elf you sold into slavery to fund your little war, for every innocent whose blood is on your hands, _you will die_.”

“Wait! There is another option!” Riordan cried. Alistair and Daylen both turned to look at the older Warden incredulously.

“Well, I was going to blow his head off, but if you’ve got a way to kill him more painfully, I’m all for it,” Daylen remarked.

“The teyrn is a warrior and a general of renown,” Riordan said. “Let him be of use. Let him go through the Joining.”

“With all due respect, Riordan, _are you fucking crazy_?” Daylen asked, the end of his staff still pointed at Loghain’s head.

“There are too few of us,” Riordan shot back. “It’s not a matter of what we _like_ , it’s a matter of what we _must do_. Our duty is to slay the Archdemon.” Daylen and Alistair exchanged a glace, remembering Avernus’s explanation. “We aren’t judges. Kinslayers, blood mages, traitors, rebels, carta thugs, common bandits, anyone with the skill and the mettle to take up the sword against the darkspawn is welcome among us. There are _three_ of us in all of Ferelden. And there are…compelling reasons to have as many Wardens on hand as possible to deal with the Archdemon.”

“The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not?” Anora asked. “If he survives, you gain a general. If not, you have your revenge. Doesn’t that satisfy you?” [3]

“Not particularly,” Daylen snapped. “A general we can’t trust is no use.”

“Absolutely not!” Alistair exploded. “Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and then _blamed us_ for the deed! He hunted us down like animals! He _tortured you_! How can we simply forget that?”

“Anyone can join the Wardens, regardless of their past,” Riordan replied.

“It doesn’t matter!” Alistair snapped. “We can’t trust him. He can’t join.”

“He’s right,” Daylen said absently. “We can’t use him, not in the Ferelden Grey Wardens.”

“We may not have a choice,” Riordan argued.

“Look, Riordan,” Daylen shot back. “Alistair is the senior active Warden in Ferelden. That makes him Warden-Commander by default. It makes me Warden-Constable, with the second-longest time in the order. Technically speaking, we outrank you.”

“Oh, come now,” Riordan protested.

“It’s a technicality, but it applies. Now listen close. We. Won’t. Recruit. Him. Loghain Mac Tir is not welcome in the Fereldan Grey Wardens.” Grateful that Alistair was standing behind him, Daylen gave Riordan a pointed look.

Riordan set his jaw. “Fine. I invoke the Right of Conscription.”

“What?” Alistair cried. “He just said we wouldn’t accept him!”

“He said the Fereldan Grey Wardens would not accept him,” Riordan growled. “The Orlesian Wardens, however, would be more than happy to recruit the Hero of the River Dane into their ranks.”

“Sneaky, Riordan,” Daylen said. “And we can’t interfere. No authority with the Orlesian Grey Wardens.”

“This is...you…” Alistair bit off the rest of his sentence. “Fine. But he’s _not_ a Warden. Name him a Warden and you cheapen us all. I will not stand next to him as a brother.”

“Agreed,” Daylen said. “He’s no Warden. But it’s out of our hands now.” Alistair was still glaring murderously, and Daylen gave him a minute shake of the head. “Not here.” Slowly, Daylen let the magic he had gathered dissipate and lowered his staff, raising a hand and healing the cut on his jaw. “Get this worthless slime out of here.”

Loghain was hauled away, and Arl Eamon nodded. “So it is decided,” Eamon pronounced. “Alistair will take his father’s throne.”

“Wait, what?” Alistair cried. “No! When did this get decided? Nobody’s decided that, have they?”

Anora seized on the opportunity quickly. “He refuses the throne. Everyone here has heard him. I think it’s clear, then, that he abdicates in favor of me.”

“I hardly think you’re the appropriate person to mediate this, Anora,” Eamon snorted. “Warden, the Landsmeet has indicated it will support your decision. What say you?”

Daylen met his friend’s eyes, feeling sick to his stomach. “Ferelden needs a strong leader, someone capable of leading it through this crisis. And I believe that Alistair is that leader.” If looks could kill, Anora’s glare would have incinerated Daylen on the spot.

“This is where I wake up, usually,” Alistair groaned. “Or everyone points and laughs because I have no clothes on…”

“Anora, the Landsmeet has decided against you,” Eamon declared. “You must now swear fealty to our king, and relinquish all claim to the throne for yourself and your heirs.”

“If you think I will swear that oath, Eamon, you know nothing of me,” Anora said coldly.

“Anora, be reasonable,” Daylen sighed.

“Reason clearly had nothing to do with _your_ choice, Warden,” Anora spat.

“Oh, so you want to do this now, then?” Daylen asked. “Fine by me!”

“You gave me your word that you would support me as Queen!”

“I did no such thing,” the Warden snapped. “You assumed that everyone agreed with your assertion that you were the best thing for Ferelden. Your own argument convinced me otherwise. You claimed to have been the true power behind the Fereldan throne for the last five years. The son of Arl Urien treated the elves of the Alienage like his personal playthings. Snakes like Howe were allowed to grow in power, and when he took over Denerim-”

“He did _not_ take over Denerim-”

“ _No more lies_!” Daylen roared. Anora's mask slipped as the woman flinched at the volume of his voice. “He _murdered_ the Couslands, imprisoned Vaughn Kendells and had him tortured to death, and purged the Alienage! His thugs went house to house in Highever and in the Denerim Alienage, putting anyone who tried to object to the sword! Every child in the Alienage orphanage was _slaughtered_! Forty-six elven children, and their caretakers!” Daylen snarled at her. “There was so much blood spilt that the Veil was weakened. We had to defeat several demons that had forced their way through. And every drop of that blood is on _your hands_.” Anora opened her mouth, and Daylen's glare intensified. “Alistair, we cannot leave Ferelden in a state of civil war, and clearly Anora has no intent of allowing this succession crisis to be resolved.”

“What do you want me to do, gut her here and now?” Alistair asked acidly. Anora flinched. “We can’t do that. I guess we put her in the tower, for now. Lock her up. Maybe we can find somewhere to send her. Later. We can’t simply kill her.”

“I…” Anora turned, realizing she was getting cold glares from all directions. “Thank you, Alistair. You show me mercy that I…would not have shown you.”

“Very well,” Eamon said tiredly. “Guards, take her away.” As the deposed queen left, the arl turned to Alistair. “Your Highness, would you address the Landsmeet?”

“Oh. That would be me. Right.” Alistair cleared his throat. “I never knew him, but from all I’ve heard of my father, what defined him was his commitment to protecting this land. I intend to follow his example, but I am also a Grey Warden, and I took an oath. I swore I would stand and fight the darkspawn, no matter the cost to myself. I can’t break that oath just to wear the crown. I have to go with my fellow Warden to face the Blight. When the Blight is over, I’ll come back and take up my duties, whatever they may be, as king. Until then, I think Arl Eamon will have to be my regent.”

“Then I can do Maric’s memory no less honor than you do,” Eamon said. “I accept. And may the Maker bless your efforts against the darkspawn.”

“My fellow Grey Warden will, I hope, take Loghain’s place as the leader of my armies.” Alistair turned to Daylen. “Shall we finish this thing together?”

“I could do no less, my king,” Daylen replied. “We will defeat this Blight, together. For Ferelden.”

“Everyone, get ready to march,” Alistair commanded. “It’s going to take all of Ferelden’s strength to survive this Blight. But we _will_ face it, and we’ll defeat it.”

The Warden’s companions and his allies regrouped at Arl Eamon’s estate, Daylen pouring himself a stiff drink and downing it immediately.

“Maybe now my family’s souls can rest easy,” Elissa sighed, accepting a glass from Daylen as he poured himself another. “Howe is dead, Loghain…well, I’ll have to be satisfied with the knowledge he’ll probably die fighting darkspawn.”

“What’s next for you, then?” Daylen asked.

Elissa sat down hard, her eyes unfocused. “I don’t know,” she confessed after a few moments. “I…I never expected to get this far.”

Daylen sat down next to her. “You said you’d met Duncan.”

“He was at Highever, yes,” Elissa said softly. “He was there earlier than expected and left earlier than expected.” The noble snorted. “You know, he actually expressed a brief interest in recruiting me?”

“If he had, he probably wouldn’t have recruited me,” Daylen realized. “I probably would have died at the Circle during the uprising.”

“How easily our situation could have been reversed,” Elissa mused. “But this doesn’t gain me anything. I still don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Want a job?” Daylen offered.

“I’m not joining the Wardens,” Elissa said flatly. “I’m the last Cousland. Highever will need a teyrn.”

“So will Gwaren, but that’s not the point,” Daylen replied. “I’m not recruiting you into the Wardens. Not that you don’t have what it takes, but we’ll need people to lead what’s left of Ferelden when this Blight is over.”

“Then what’d you have in mind?” Elissa asked.

“Well, I’ve got Dalish skirmishers, Circle mages, Arl Eamon’s knights, dwarven warriors, and now the bulk of the army of Ferelden at my command,” Daylen explained. “I have no experience or training managing anything at all, let alone the logistics of something this large. Neither does Alistair. Pardon me, King Alistair. I don’t trust Loghain at the head of any army I have to rely on, and I don’t much trust Arl Eamon, either. Not that I even know if Arl Eamon has any experience leading an army, so it may be pointless to even mention him-”

“Daylen,” Elissa interrupted softly. “Get to the point.”

“Do you think you can help manage this army? I need all the pieces on the board moving the same direction.”

“My father taught me strategy, discipline, and logistics,” Elissa declared. “I’ve been groomed to lead a teyrnir, and all the forces it commanded. I can do this.”

“You’re hired,” Daylen said immediately.

“Well, that...went well, I suppose,” Arl Eamon said, entering the room. “It could have very easily gone badly.”

“Agreed,” Daylen replied. “I could have chosen Cupcake as my champion.”

“I’m...glad you didn't,” Eamon said slowly. “I'm afraid we couldn't leave the fate of Ferelden up to your dog. Anyone with a leftover ham bone could have bought his allegiance.”

Cupcake gave an affronted bark from his position by the fire. “The dog is right,” Daylen agreed. “Cupcake is far more loyal than that! Besides, what could be more Fereldan than letting a mabari decide the fate of the monarchy?”

“It would have been absurd,” Eamon protested.

“It would have been _Fereldan_ ,” Daylen shot back. “Dream crusher.”

The door opened, and Alistair walked in, his eyes strangely distant. “You made me king. After all this is over with, they’re actually going to put me on the throne. I’m still…I’m going to be the king.” He slowly pulled his gauntlets off, rubbing his face.

Daylen downed his drink. “Congratulations,” he said softly.

“Congratulations?” Alistair repeated. “ _Congratulations?_ ” He reared back, slugging Daylen on the jaw hard enough to knock the Warden to the ground. “Why would you do this to me? How could you? I’ve done nothing but regret my blood since the day I was born. I don’t want this. I _never_ wanted this! I hate the very idea of it! I thought we were friends. You knew how I felt about this, yet you went ahead and did it anyway. Why?”

Daylen stood up, wiping blood from where his lip had split again. “I didn’t have any other option, Alistair. If I’d had one, I would have taken it. But your country needs you, Alistair.”

“And what I want doesn’t factor in anywhere, does it? Funny how it always works out like that.”

Daylen grabbed Alistair by the front of his breastplate, shoving him into the wall. “Don’t you give me that! You _know_ I wouldn’t do this lightly! Forcing you into this position is probably the worst thing I’ve ever done! But this is where we are! Alistair, this is who you were always meant to be. It’s time for you step up and take your place as your own man.”

“I’m going to make a terrible king, you have to know that,” Alistair said. “How can I make decisions that are going to affect the lives of everyone in the kingdom?”

“With _this_ ,” Daylen replied, punching Alistair in the chest over his heart, his gauntlets clanking against Alistair’s breastplate. “With your heart, Alistair. You’re one of the best men I’ve ever met, and I know you’ll make a great king, if you just _believe in yourself_!”

“I guess I don’t really have a choice in it now, do I?” Alistair sighed. “I’ll do my best, of course. And I expect that you’ll be there to help me, right?”

Daylen nodded. “If you want me there, of course I will. As much as I am able.”

“Good. Then it’s settled. Arl Eamon is leaving for Redcliffe. He says the army has gathered there and is almost ready to march. As soon as we’re ready, we should head to Redcliffe ourselves. The Blight awaits, right?”

—ROTG—

Riordan and Daylen were standing in the Arl’s study, having prepared the Joining potion. “As our youngest Warden, Daylen, it falls to you to speak the traditional words,” Riordan said.

“Here,” Daylen growled, shoving the chalice at Loghain. “Drink this. Try not to die.”

“You are called upon to submit yourself to the Taint for the greater good,” Riordan filled in, giving Daylen a disapproving look.

Loghain drank from the chalice, and Daylen took it as the man stood there for a long moment, not sure whether to hope Loghain survived or not. The teyrn slowly collapsed, clattering to the floor. Daylen rolled him over, checking his pulse. “I’m not sure whether to be relieved or not, but he’s alive,” the Warden declared.

“Tamarel has gone to the border,” Riordan said. “I am headed south from here.”

“We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning,” Daylen replied. “With all the men from the Denerim garrison that we can take with us. We’ll take the north road, cut past Lake Calenhad and pick up the remaining mages.”

“Will you stay with him until he awakes?” Riordan asked.

“Yes, yes, now go. The darkspawn won’t wait.” Daylen sat down, poured himself another drink, and put his boots up on the desk and waited, passing the time by reading another spell scroll. Eventually, Loghain groaned, sitting up. “Rise and shine, cockbag,” Daylen said without looking up.

“I passed your test,” Loghain remarked. “Fate has a twisted sense of humor, it seems. I suppose you think I’m some sort of monster. More so since I survived your ritual. You keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently.”

“You have a point there,” Daylen admitted. “Well, there are some things you need to know now that you’re Tainted like the rest of us. First, and probably least importantly, your chances of having children are much lower.” Loghain raised an eyebrow. “I know, probably not an issue. Also, you’re going to feel more energetic, more vital, you can sense nearby darkspawn, and you’re now immune to the Taint. That’s the good news, and that's part of the reason that only the Grey Wardens can defeat the Blight. The bad news is that you have at most, about thirty years to live, before the Taint that’s now in your body progresses to the point that it becomes degenerative. At that point, you’ll be sent to Orzammar and go on a suicide run, killing as many darkspawn as you can before they kill you, if you don't decide to run away again. The worse news is that the darkspawn can sense you as well, so sneaking up on them probably isn’t going to happen. Also, the _really_ bad news is that there’s an Archdemon out there, and the Tainted mortal who strikes the killing blow dies in the process. I won’t bore you with the details, but guess who I’ve got in mind to take the hit.” Daylen stood up and gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “See, I had hoped to get some Orlesian Wardens in to help out, and barring that, I was planning to take the blow myself. Alistair’s a better man than I am, and Maker knows he can do a job that I can’t. But you present an opportunity. And if Riordan manages to take the Archdemon with him instead, I’m sure that you’ll enjoy living in Orlais oh so very much.”

“I survived, but I’m going to pay for it,” Loghain mused. “Well, Warden. I must admit you have played this well. You have your army, you neutralized your enemies and through luck or planning have managed to not only make me into an ally, but place me in the Orlesian Wardens. I presume that was in the name of retribution.”

“Hardly,” Daylen replied. “I would have preferred to just kill you. It certainly would have made Alistair happy. But we're short on Wardens, thanks to you.”

“Cailan was the one who demanded that all the Wardens stand with him,” Loghain snapped.

“And you were the one who allowed it to happen, and then turned away the Orlesian Wardens at the border out of idiocy or paranoia,” Daylen shot back. “Do  _not_ attempt to place the blame solely on Cailan's shoulders. He was an idiot, yes, but you left him there.”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” Loghain growled. “Cailan was your king.”

“Says the man who left him to die,” Daylen hissed, stepping into Loghain's personal space. “He was your king too. You want to talk about respect? You will  _never_ be anything more than someone who was too necessary to kill to me or any other Warden. You'll have to spend the rest of your miserable life working your way up to merely being hated. Pretend all you want that you merely did what you had to do to protect Ferelden. Maybe it lets you sleep at night, maybe you even believe it. You still abandoned your king, abandoned the Wardens, and refused to acknowledge that the Blight was the enemy, not Orlais, simply because you couldn't see past your hatred and paranoia. You can justify it to yourself that you were doing what you thought was best, that you were sure that the Orlesians were planning to conquer Ferelden again with their Wardens. You still betrayed us, betrayed Cailan, betrayed Ferelden. We could have two hundred Wardens and enough men to outnumber the horde backing us up. If you had any brains to support your paranoia you'd have used the Orlesian reinforcements on the front lines and weakened Orlais further. Instead, we'll be outnumbered and outmatched, with four Wardens fighting a Blight. Because of you. We'll be lucky if the Warden reinforcements manage to contain the Blight at the border. So congratulations, Orlais won't get Ferelden, it'll probably be burned to the ground by the darkspawn instead. I hope it was worth it.”

—ROTG—

_The Noble Families of Ferelden  
The occupation left empty castles in its wake. Whole families were butchered in the initial invasion, and all those who couldn’t or wouldn’t bend knee to the Emperor’s puppet king were declared traitors and hunted. Many bloodlines ended on Chevaliers’ blades at dusty crossroads, in forest clearings, or in freeholds._

_And then there were the turncoats._

_To curry favor with their new masters, some nobles took up arms against their brothers. They betrayed and murdered the Rebel Queen, an act that created even more vacant titles and lands, once King Maric exacted justice._

_That Ferelden did not fall apart after the Orlesians left is a testament to the strength of King Maric. The old families still held grudges against those who had sided with the emperor, and those new families that had been granted titles were viewed as interlopers. The Landsmeets that followed Maric’s coronation were tense, to say the least._

_—From Ferelden: Folklore and History, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Game of Thrones. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2The Mask. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3And how does she know that? [ return to text ]


	33. Return to Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Landsmeet and the endgame moves into full swing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017.

_Leliana  
“In the cloister, away from the fuss and the flurry of the cities, I found peace. And in that stillness, I could hear the Maker.”_

_A lay sister of the Chantry who can beat the stuffing out of trained mercenaries would be notable enough, but one who also claims to have been sent to fight the darkspawn by the Maker Himself is... unusual to say the least._

_She joined Alistair and The Warden in Lothering, insisting that she would prove useful._

_There's more to Leliana than had even been apparent at Lothering, however. She spent much of her life as a bard in Orlais: a minstrel, assassin, and spy employed by the nobles of Val Royeaux in their elaborate games of intrigue._

_Her decision to join the Chantry was not merely the product of her disenchantment with the life of a bard; Leliana was framed by her bard-master, and fled to escape execution as a traitor._

_Leliana takes care to honor the Lothering cloister that took her in, and keeps symbols of Andraste's blessings close to her heart._

—ROTG—

Daylen glanced nervously over his shoulder, fighting a grin as the flames belched from an upper-story window. “Whoops.”

“Was setting the place on fire really necessary?” Zevran asked, sweeping a guard’s legs out from under him and stabbing him in the chest without breaking stride.

“Necessary? No.” Daylen slid behind Alistair, an arrow glancing off the warrior’s shield as Leliana leaned out, dropping the archer with a carefully-aimed shot. “Fun? Absolutely. Bann Franderel made it personal when he rigged up that poison trap. Besides, they’ll be too busy trying to put it out to chase us.”

“So starting a firestorm in the dining hall was just payback?” Alistair asked.

“Also covers up the fact that we stole everything in that vault that we could carry,” Daylen added, shaking his robes so that his pockets jingled. “Not like there’s going to be collateral damage. You saw, all the maids and servants got out.”

Leliana adjusted the stolen crown on her head, whistling to her companions as a guard fell to his knees, clutching at the arrow in his throat. “That’s the last one. Come on!”

With cutting back through the estate not an option, the side of the building now entirely consumed by flame, the group cut back through the sewer exit that they had used on their first attempt to rob Franderel’s vault.

—ROTG—

“I heard about the fire,” Slim said as the group met him the next morning. “I’m amazed no innocents were hurt.”

“We made sure nobody was in the way,” Daylen explained. “But we did it.”

“Everyone will be talking about this. Bann Franderel will be humiliated.”

“We stole just about everything we could, but the big payoff was this.” Daylen fished out the vial, holding it up. “If this is actually the Tears of Andraste, I’d be very surprised.”

“Can I have the Tears? I’ve arranged an anonymous delivery to the Chantry.” Daylen handed it over. “I’ll make sure it gets there safely. It’s been an honor, Warden, but I don’t think you can top these heists. I wonder if history will ever know the full story of what we’ve done.”

“Probably not, but we will,” Daylen said firmly. “Like you said, those noble ponces didn’t have the last laugh. If you come across any other work, let me know. But please, no more chimneys. We almost got stuck.”

—ROTG—

Alistair was glaring as they made camp that evening. Riordan had left hours earlier and was far ahead of the group, and Loghain was in a separate camp established by members of the Denerim garrison that were coming along to Redcliffe. Daylen was moderately sure he could hear creaking from across the camp, either from the leather in his gauntlets groaning in protest as he clenched his fists or his teeth grinding.

Leliana’s normal pleasant smile was gone, replaced by a concerned frown. She bit her lip, looking at the Warden King. “I worry about him.”

“Me too,” Daylen admitted. “But I understand his hatred for Loghain.”

“How can you understand hatred like that?” Leliana asked.

“Simple,” Daylen said. “Who is eligible to join the Wardens?”

Leliana paused a moment. “Well…anyone.”

“Exactly,” Daylen said. “Anyone, regardless of their background, can be conscripted into or join up with the Grey Wardens. Some see it as a punishment. But Alistair will  _never_ see becoming a Warden as a punishment. For him, being a Grey Warden is an honor and the Wardens are his family.” Daylen paused a moment. “Were his family. So to him, the suggestion of making Loghain a Warden is tantamount to asking Alistair to accept him as a brother and let him off for everything he did. Imagine if someone killed your entire family and then a friend asked you to not only forgive him, but treat him like a new family member.” 

“Oh.” Leliana looked increasingly shocked as she processed the information. “Oh Maker. No wonder he was so upset.”

“Exactly,” Daylen said. “Frankly, I think it would have been poetic justice to see him fall in battle as a Warden, or even have died during the Joining, but between him and Alistair, I'll take Alistair any day. Loghain may have had experience in battlefield tactics and overall strategy, but I'd be looking over my shoulder and second-guessing him constantly.”

Finally, Alistair stood up, grabbing his sword and making for the separate camp.

Daylen was behind him in seconds. “Alistair, don’t do it.”

“You don’t know what I’m about to do,” the warrior snapped.

The mage grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back. “Don’t I? You don’t normally take your sword to the privy. You’re walking right towards his camp with a weapon. If you’re not going to try to kill him, where _are_ you going?”

“Get off of me.” Alistair yanked his arm free. “I can’t rest easy knowing he’s still breathing. Riordan can leave if he has a problem with it.”

“Duncan wouldn’t want you to do that,” Daylen argued.

“Duncan is _dead_!” Alistair shouted, making Daylen flinch. “And it’s because of him! And I’m supposed to just ignore that and fight alongside him? You think Duncan would have wanted that?” Without waiting for an answer, Alistair turned back to leave, and Daylen grabbed him, dragging him down to the ground. Alistair’s sword went clattering away, and the two scuffled, rolling around in the dirt.

There was none of the artful swordsmanship and footwork the two used when fighting darkspawn. Alistair managed to get free of Daylen and stood, only for the mage to freeze his heels together, letting the man tip forward. Unfortunately, this brought him into striking range, and Alistair’s fist swung up and brought Daylen to his knees with tears in his eyes.

“Should we…stop them?” Leliana asked as Daylen sucker-punched his friend, leaving him coughing for air.

“Let ‘em fight it out,” Oghren grumbled. “From the looks of it this isn’t something you can fix with just talking.” He chuckled as Alistair threw an elbow, bloodying Daylen’s nose. “Besides, I kinda like how they’re sorting out their issues.”

“Enough!” Wynne shouted. “Both of you!” She drew her staff to separate the two, only for Morrigan to intervene. A mild entropic spell left the elderly mage’s hands numb from the wrist out, her staff dropping to the ground.

“For once, mind your own business, you overbearing harridan! Your unsought words would do little good here.”

At this point, Daylen had Alistair in a headlock, the warrior repeatedly punching him in the kidneys to try to get free. “Hold still, would you?” Daylen coughed, grunting in pain as Alistair delivered another blow to his lower back.

“Gerroff me!” the man growled in between punches.

“Just listen to me! That’s all I ask!” Alistair slugged him in the side once more, before falling still. Daylen loosened his grip, and both men fell apart, panting heavily. “I don’t like the prick any more than you do, Alistair,” the mage rasped, sitting up and grimacing as his kidneys ached. “I’m not asking you to like him, I’m not asking you to fight alongside him, I’m not even asking you not to kill him. I’m asking you not to kill him _yet_.” Daylen paused, spitting out some blood that had run from his nose into his mouth. “You know the costs of what’s ahead of us just as well as I do. If the fucker dies, so be it. If he survives the battle, I’ll hold him down while you stick a knife in him. Then we can all go out for ale and whores. But for now, _we need him_ , and you know that!”

Alistair was still glaring at him. “You really are a cold bastard.”

“You asked me if Duncan would have wanted us to ignore what he’s done,” Daylen went on. “I think he would have. He recruited me when I had just helped a blood mage escape the Circle. It didn’t matter to him. I would fight the darkspawn with him. That’s as far as he cared. And that’s what Loghain’s going to do. He’ll fight the darkspawn with us. If he dies, he dies. If not, _we’ll make sure he dies anyway._ ” There was a long pause as Alistair pushed himself to his knees, glaring at Daylen. “Can you live with that?”

The warrior punched him one last time, before jerking his feet apart, standing up, and stalking off towards their camp. “Fine. He lives. For now.”

—ROTG—

“I heard a scuffle,” Loghain said as Daylen approached, his arms full of equipment. “Has the boy thrown another tantrum?”

“Shut up before I do him a favor,” Daylen replied. “He made a lot of good points.”

“Yes, the blood on your face tells me that much,” Loghain commented.

“You're going to need better arms and armor, if you're going to survive,” Daylen said, ignoring the teyrn’s comments.

“My armor is sufficient. It has seen me through many battles unharmed.”

“And there is better armor available,” Daylen replied, dropping several large bundles at Loghain's feet. “Now shut up and put this on.” 

A moment after unwrapping it, Loghain looked up at Daylen in confusion. “Red steel is inferior to silverite.”

“It is,” Daylen acknowledged. “This is dragonbone.” He picked up Loghain's sword and examined it, before scoffing disdainfully. “A regulation sword. You go up against an Archdemon with one of these, you'll be laughed off the battlefield.”

“What do you suggest I use then? Some gilded Orlesian monstrosity?”

“As I understand it, you recovered that armor off of a chevalier at the River Dane,” Daylen said pointedly.

A moment's pause. “Then what would you prefer I use?” In reply, Daylen tossed him a leather-wrapped scabbard, a deep red hilt protruding from it. “What is this?”

“This is a sword that I retrieved in the Deep Roads, and a powerful one at that. Seems an elf – not a Warden, best we could tell – by the name of Willem Trialmont took this sword into the Deep Roads and fought alongside the Legion of the Dead. He acquitted himself so well, that when he finally fell he was buried with full dwarven honors. They don't even do that for Wardens they come across. Regardless, it's yours now. Zevran and Leliana find it ill-balanced for their build, Alistair already has a sword, and Oghren and Sten prefer their weapons large enough to cleave a horse in two.”

Loghain drew the sword, feeling the magic in the blade sing as he gave it an experimental twirl. “This is an exquisite blade.”

“You'll need it.”

“You are capable of using such a sword, are you not? Why not this one?”

“Well, one-handed weapons are my preference – they leave the other hand free to make rude gestures,” Daylen admitted. “But you can put this to better use. The sword I use is only in case a darkspawn gets too close. The blade I have already is better suited to my build.” He examined Loghain's shield next.

“That, I refuse to replace,” Loghain declared. “It was given to me by Maric.”

“I can tell,” Daylen said softly. “It's exquisite. This will absolutely do.”

“Where did yours come from?” Loghain asked, turning the heavy shield Daylen favored over. “It's certainly impressive.”

“This came off a demon we found in Denerim, and a powerful one at that. Gaxkang the Unbound. Now Gaxkang Who Got His Head Crushed By Daylen. It's charged with arcane energy. Assists my magic.”

Loghain gestured at the scabbard that was just visible next to Daylen's gear, the wrapped-wire hilt poking up over the pack. “And your blade?”

Daylen looked sheepish. “I picked it up at Ostagar.”

“And you've carried it this long?”

“We went back,” Daylen replied softly. “Laid Cailan's body to rest. Recovered his arms and armor.”

Loghain's eyes narrowed. “That wasn't Cailan's…”

“No, Cailan's greatsword was lost in the battle, although we recovered his shield,” Daylen admitted. “It, along with his armor, has been set aside, stashed away at Redcliffe. If we survive, it can be displayed with the respect it deserves.”

Loghain's glare hadn't let up. “Then where did the sword come from.”

“The royal arms chest,” Daylen said guiltily.

“ _Is that Maric's sword_?” Loghain exploded. “You have the audacity–”

“My staff had just been snapped in half by an ogre,” Daylen replied. “I realize that you've never faced one down bare-handed, but once you do, you realize that no matter whoever owned the blade before you, if you need a weapon, you use what's at hand.” Loghain was still staring at him, his expression a mixture of horror and rage. “Easy, man, you'll give yourself a fit!”

“That blade was the property of Ferelden's greatest king!”

“And once that Archdemon is dead, it will be returned. I have no intention of keeping it,” Daylen replied. “Especially when my weapons seem to have a short lifespan.” Loghain's expression grew pained. “I mean, a werewolf bit my first staff in half, an ogre destroyed my staff at Ostagar, two other staves gone to two dragons…” he looked up from his rambling to see Loghain's open-mouthed look of despair. “Sorry. I'll take good care of this, I promise you.”

“Warden, if you’re going to attempt to kill me again, I’d recommend a sharp knife in the kidneys. Less impressive, but it gets the job done.”

“That plan loses something when you’re the one suggesting it.”

“I suppose it does lack the element of surprise. Well, what shall we do to settle things between us, then?”

“For now, I’m stuck with you,” Daylen said. “Provided you and I both survive the Blight, I’ll ship you off to Orlais, post-haste. Meantime, I need to know I can trust you.”

The older warrior shook his head. “Nothing I can say will prove that. Either I will _be_ worthy of trust, or I won’t. I’m going to get to the point: what do you want from me? I can’t imagine that you spared my life in the Landsmeet by accident. If you really wanted me dead, you would have simply killed me and settled the issue with Riordan. You have some plan in mind.”

“You tell me. What do you want?”

“What _I_ want? What an odd question.” Loghain paused, considering the question. “I want to ride back to Denerim and sit in the war room and find no empty chairs at the table. I want to lose nothing else. I want a line, clearly drawn, that I can defend. I want an end to this war. All of this can rightly be called my fault. Whether or not you can do better remains to be seen. But if you can make this the end, Warden, I will follow you. I swear it.”

“A fine performance, Loghain, but no one here is taken in by it,” Daylen replied. “You’re going to have to prove your worth here.”

“I never doubted that. One of these days, I want a rematch,” Loghain said.

Daylen snorted. “Look, had I not been trying _not_ to kill or terrify everyone in that room, you'd never had made it out alive. Frozen you solid, or set you on fire, or made your head explode, or dropped a blizzard on you. But that would have hurt or scared an awful lot of people.” He scratched his beard. “Frankly, I'm surprised nobody’s accused me of using blood magic to try to control Alistair or put myself on the throne.”

Loghain rolled his eyes. “Fereldans aren't _that_ paranoid.”

“You assumed that an ancient order of protectors was working for a foreign power with precisely nothing in the way of real evidence,” Daylen said pointedly. “And said assumption nearly got us all killed.”

“What would you have had me do?” Loghain snarled. “Hand Ferelden back to the Orlesians on a silver platter, in the name of stopping the darkspawn?”

“No, but I understand now why you refused so strongly,” Daylen replied quietly. Loghain seemed taken aback, and Daylen pressed on. “I was born in Kirkwall, right around the time you and Maric were pushing the Orlesians out. I never had to live under their tyranny. I didn’t experience that. I don’t know the hate you feel for them.”

“Hate doesn’t describe it,” Loghain said softly. “I’ve seen painted, masked lords beat an old farmer to death with riding crops. To this day, I don’t know why. Is that hate?” Daylen didn’t answer, and Loghain went on, words pouring from his lips. “I saw good men, sensible men, fighting armored chevaliers with nothing – no weapons, no armies, not even hope of success – to see the occupation end. I saw people with nothing to lose but their lives lay even that down on the chance that maybe, one day, Ferelden could be free. Is that hate?”

“And then your son-in-law insists that Ferelden’s problems with Orlais are a thing of the past. I was at that war council too, Loghain,” Daylen finished. “Had he ever fought a real war before?”

“No,” Loghain growled. “Maric and I fought the war. Cailan never had to see it.”

“Perhaps he should have,” Daylen mused. “Had he seen what a war was like, he would have learned to trust your judgment and concerns. Maybe he might have even respected you.” Loghain glanced over in confusion, and Daylen snorted. “Oh, come off it. I saw how he treated you. At the time, you were one of Ferelden’s greatest heroes, a true-blooded patriot. And Cailan kicked you around like you were nobody. He treated _me_ with more respect than he did you.”

“It didn’t matter,” Loghain replied. “I should have done more. Insisted more, argued harder with him, _begged_ him not to be on that front line.”

“Cailan was a child,” Daylen said bluntly. “He was sweet and pleasant right up until someone said no to him. He had made his decision and nothing you could have done would have changed that.”

—ROTG—

The group was looping around the north end of Ferelden, cutting past Amaranthine and most of the Coastlands in the course of a day. Alistair was taking dinner among the soldiers, citing the need to ‘know his men’ if he was going to be king. Loghain had wisely come to the Warden’s camp.

Wynne had been glaring murderously at Loghain so long that Daylen was mildly surprised the side of the man's head hadn't begun to smoke. Finally, the warrior snapped. “You can stop scowling at me, madam.”

“Did I need your permission?” She asked tartly. “I see.”

Loghain rolled his eyes. “Fine. I confess. It was entirely my idea that Uldred consort with demons. I had a dastardly scheme in which the utter destruction of Ferelden's best weapon would benefit me, personally. Are you satisfied now?”

“Do you think your deal with Uldred was where you earned my contempt? I was at Ostagar. I witnessed Cailan's murder.”

“Such loyalty,” Loghain scoffed.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Wynne asked.

“Did you try to save him, then?” the fallen general asked pointedly. “My apologies.”

“I was fortunate to escape with my life!” Wynne protested.

“So you didn't rush to your king's rescue? I see. Then both of us left the boy to die.”

“I was no general at the head of an army! I could never have reached him!”

“And I had no magic that could break those darkspawn ranks,” Loghain shot back. “But perhaps you think I ought to have tried, regardless. No doubt, the lives of mere soldiers are cheap in the eyes of the Circle.”

“And what of all the soldiers who died with their king? Their lives were worth nothing to you.”

The warrior stepped into Wynne's personal space. “You think so, do you? I knew their names, mage, and where they came from. I knew their families.” The man's lip curled scornfully. “I do not know how you mages determine the value of things, but they were my men. I know _exactly_ how much I lost that day.”

“How much you gave up, you mean,” Daylen interjected. “Don't pretend you had no other choice, Loghain. You sacrificed those men. Deemed their loss necessary and wrote them off.”

“It was horrible,” Wynne said, her glare remaining. “At Ostagar, and at the Circle. Both unnecessary and entirely avoidable tragedies.”

Daylen shook his head. “Not true.”

Every head snapped over to look at him, but none looked so surprised as Loghain. “I beg your pardon?” Wynne asked sharply.

“Cailan was on the front line,” Daylen said softly. “I saw him there, that night. Tell me something, why did the archers only fire one volley? Why were the hounds left unsupported? And why, in the Maker's name, did Cailan's group break from their defensive positions to engage the horde in the open field? Even had Loghain engaged, even if he had done _what he should have_ , he never would have made it in time. Cailan being there certainly could have been avoided, but once the battle was joined…” he shook his head. “Had there been more Wardens, more mages, had there not been a Revered Mother trying to dictate battlefield tactics, then _maybe_ we could have won that day, but it wouldn't have mattered in the long term. Without the Archdemon on the field, no amount of dead darkspawn in that battle would have ended the Blight on its own.” He paused, taking a drink from a borrowed bottle from Oghren. “I mean, sure, short of knocking him over the head and dragging him off someplace safe, I don't know what you could have done to stop Cailan from putting himself out there, and even if he let that go he'd have just done it again at the next battle. Frankly, I don't think he or Duncan intended to survive.”

“How do you mean?” Loghain asked suspiciously.

“Cailan _knew_ that battle couldn't be won. How many deserters were there before Ostagar?”

“Too many,” Loghain said darkly.

“I thought so,” Daylen went on. “We encountered _far_ too many bandits with army-issue equipment for them to have all been survivors of Ostagar. The army knew something was wrong. Wynne, you said yourself that Cailan had to display confidence, bravado, even arrogance, to prop up morale. He knew he had to be out there to keep the troops from breaking. And Duncan _knew_ the Archdemon wasn't nearby. Blast him, he _knew_ they couldn't win!”

“That _bastard_ ,” Loghain hissed. “He–”

“Shut up,” Daylen interrupted. “I'm not finished. I think – and I don't know this for sure – I think Duncan may have tried to use everyone as bait. Trying to make a big enough showing to get the Archdemon to show itself, or at least enough of the horde to convince the rest of Thedas to get their thumbs out of their arses and help out the Grey Wardens.”

“Well, _that_ worked,” Wynne said acidly.

“I must say, I doubt Duncan anticipated Loghain's reaction,” Daylen added, taking another drink. “But Cailan's plan was so legendarily stupid that I can't think of any other reason Duncan agreed to risk the Grey Wardens on the front line, or even bring them to the battle at all. He knew that just killing a thousand or five thousand darkspawn wasn't going to stop the horde, they just bring up more the next day. Even if they _had_ won, even if Loghain _had_ done what was planned, the two dozen Wardens that were Ferelden would have been dead, and the Fereldan army would have been gutted. Cailan was dead either way. And at the time, the Archdemon was still across the country in the Deep Roads.” A realization flashed in Daylen's eyes, and he went on. “Alistair mentioned that Duncan had visited Orzammar with some other Wardens on his recruiting trip – he must have been tracking any signs of the Archdemon, trying to figure out where it would be. But it wouldn't matter. More darkspawn would have emerged soon after – we saw an entire horde in the Dead Trenches. I'll admit. Treason it may have been, but it preserved much of the army and gave us a fighting chance.” Daylen sneered at Loghain. “And had he had any idea of what he was going to accomplish, it would have been a sign of genius.”

“And as for the Circle?”

“Well, I can certainly see why it happened. Between the Chantry's odd and rather suspicious insistence on housing Circles in areas where the Fade is particularly thin, the conditions the mages live under, and then Uldred offering them exactly what they wanted, right when they wanted it most, it's only a surprise that it wasn't worse.” Wynne opened her mouth to retort, and Daylen went on, his tone growing pointed enough to draw blood. “The worst part was Uldred offering hope of freedom, hope of any actual right to their own lives. That would have driven any slave to make a break for freedom.”

Wynne's expression managed to sour further. “Young man, you know full well that the Circle serves a vital purpose.”

“First off,” Daylen snapped, his voice going hard. “I'm not arguing that. You know I'm not arguing that, and you can parrot the Templar line at me all you want, but don't expect me to listen. A school for magic, bringing mages in and shielding them from the ignorant, prejudiced arses out in the world, teaching them to resist possession and how to use their magic safely, I'm all for that. But maybe not put it under the sole control, supervision, and authority of a bunch of armed zealots who happen to be lyrium addicts! I don't see why it's necessary to put them under the sole and unquestioned control of a bunch of people who are trained to kill them without a second thought! Look, if the mages had any actual say over their own fates, any actual defense against Templars who decide to take a young mage as a plaything – oh, come off it, Wynne, you know that happens as well as I do – or if they were treated as human beings rather than told every moment of every day that they're a danger to themselves and others and will – not might, but _will_ – become possessed, then maybe, _maybe_ , we wouldn’t have such a high suicide rate among mages! Maybe people wouldn't be ashamed to send their children to the Circle! Maybe the parents wouldn't tie their children to a fucking post and leave them there for two days until the Templars show up and bleed the child for a phylactery! Maybe we wouldn't have mages who are hoping to get killed by a Templar, because they've been taught from their first day at the Circle that they're cursed!”

“That's not how it is,” Wynne protested.

“Keili,” Daylen retorted.

“She's a unique case!”

“Who's Keili?” Leliana asked delicately.

“A batty apprentice at the Circle who genuinely believes she committed a grave sin by being born a mage,” Daylen spat. “During the uprising, she was hoping that the Templars would burst in and put her to the sword. Worse, she tried to convince a lot of other apprentices of her views. But that's not the worst of it. Most of the apprentices ignore the Chantry teachings – that verse of the Chant 'magic exists to serve man and _never_  to rule over him' is said at every _fucking_ meal at the Circle before we're allowed to eat – but when it takes hold, really takes hold, you wind up with someone like Keili. Most of us just want the right to exist without some berk with a sunburst on his chest standing over our shoulders trying to figure out the proper angle to swing his sword to take our heads off without getting our blood on him! And if we had that, a lot of us would be only too happy to return the favor.”

“What do you mean, return the favor?” Loghain asked.

“Think of how much better a place Ferelden could be if we had healers in every city or village, battlemages backing up every company in the Fereldan military, mage scholars working alongside Chantry sisters and mothers!” He saw Wynne open her mouth again and kept going. “And before you bring up Tevinter as a counter-example, you _know_ we don't have to do things the way they do. The extreme in the other direction isn't what I'm suggesting!” Wynne's mouth closed, and Daylen continued. “But that won't happen. Why? Because the Chantry has far too vested an interest in maintaining the status quo, and that means making sure that every man, woman, child, and their sodding dogs know that mages are nothing more than a danger and a weapon to be used when necessary, to be contained, policed, kept from reproducing, and unleashed at an unstoppable enemy as a matter of last resort.”

“Dangerous ideas, Warden,” Loghain mused.

“The interesting ones usually are. The Harrowing and the Rite of Tranquility are nothing more than the Templars deliberately culling the mages, and there’s not a thing we can do to change it, because for all the talk of how the College of Enchanters decides policy and the course the Circles will take, at the end of the day the Templars can and will make all the decisions. If that happens to align with what the mages want, fine, but more often than not, they make the choice and we get to deal with it.”

“Can we please change the subject?” Leliana asked.

Daylen looked over. “Why, did it wet itself?” A couple of chuckles went out, and Daylen nodded, letting it go.[1]

“You are much taller than I expected,” Morrigan commented to Loghain.

“Am I? You expected me to be short?”

“Well, you are also younger than I imagined. Great generals are supposed to be old men who sit far from the battlefield.”

Loghain scoffed. “I have never been, nor hope to be, a great general, then.”

“No?” Morrigan shrugged. “I suppose that explains your loss at Ostagar, then.”

Loghain ignored her. “Why are we taking the North road to go to Redcliffe?”

Daylen looked over. “Mostly because the West Road is a mess, we need to link up with the remaining mages at Kinloch Hold, we can save days on the journey by crossing Lake Calenhad, and did I mention _because I fucking said so_?”

“And why are we even going to Redcliffe?”

“Because that’s where the armies are,” Daylen said slowly, as if talking to a child. “And that’s where the darkspawn are going to be. I realize you might not know this, having been so busy starting a civil war and selling slaves, but the darkspawn horde has been heavily concentrated in the west end of Ferelden. Meaning that they’re going to hit Redcliffe long before they advance on Denerim. If they’d headed east, they’d still have mustered at Redcliffe, but we would have met them near South Reach. The armies all came together at Redcliffe because Denerim wasn’t exactly friendly territory.” Daylen paused. “What with the paranoid lunatic usurper in charge there claiming there wasn’t a Blight, and then that there _was_ a Blight, but that the Wardens weren’t needed to defeat it.”

Loghain the decency to look ashamed for a long moment.

“So, err...is it Lord Loghain?” Zevran asked.

Loghain shook his head. “I am no longer a teyrn, nor even a knight. Address me without a title, as you would any other Grey Warden.”

“You're not a Grey Warden,” Daylen retorted.

“So just Loghain, then. You know who I am, yes? I was one of the Crows you hired to kill the Grey Wardens.”

“I thought you looked familiar.”

“Well, I just wanted to report that I failed my mission, Loghain.”

Loghain raised an eyebrow. “You don't say.”

“I'm terribly broken up over it,” Zevran said.

“Hmm. Well thank you kindly for informing me.” Loghain caught Cupcake’s eye, holding out a chunk of dried meat. “Here, some smoked boar saved from supper. Huh, it'll do you good.” Cupcake huffed excitedly, snapping up the scrap. “I had a mabari once. Adalla, that was her name. We found her in the wood shed one night. She was still a pup then. We never figured out where she came from. My mother called her a gift from the Maker. And she was...she really was.”

Cupcake paused in chewing, listening attentively. “She was beautiful,” the man went on. “She had a lovely chestnut brown coat, and the most intelligent, understanding eyes. You would have liked her.” Cupcake wagged his tail. “We grew up together. She never left my side, not once. Ten years we had her, before she was taken away...” Loghain broke off, and Cupcake cocked his head, looking curiously at Loghain. “Finish your snack.”

Cupcake immediately swallowed the mouthful of meat and sniffed the air curiously. “Oh, don't give me that face. I'm betting you want the cheese in my pocket.” The mabari’s haunches hit the dirt as he sat and waited patiently. “All right, all right, here you go,” Loghain chuckled, handing over the cheese. “Don't eat it all at once.” Cupcake swallowed it in two bites. “Or... do, whichever you prefer. I used to keep cheese in my pocket for Adalla too. I think the rinds were her favorite part.”

“What happened to your mabari?” Daylen asked.

Loghain glanced down at the hound. “She was taken from us, back when Orlais still ruled, and it was an Orlesian lordling who took her. He wanted to mix the blood of our noble mabari with their frail, wasp-wasted game hounds, which were bred for looks, not intelligence. I tried to keep her, but there was little I could do to stop the Orlesian...I wasn't even a man then. You can imagine what it was like for her, being torn away from the boy, the family she was bonded to.” The dog gave a long, low whine. “It was six months before we saw her again. The Orlesian returned her--and when I say ‘returned,’ I mean ‘pushed her out of his wagon.’ She was skin and bone, and still carried the scars from where their pronged collars bit into her neck. She never quite recovered.” Cupcake growled angrily, and Loghain nodded in agreement. “She passed away after a week. It was as though she held on long enough to come home to us. I held her head in my lap, and I believe she died happy.” The mabari whined, putting his head on Loghain’s knee. “It’s all right. I gave her what happiness I could.”

—ROTG—

“There you are,” Oghren said when Daylen caught up with him later that evening. “I was thinking, we’ve been through a lot together now. We’re like old war buddies. So I figured, why not invite you to share a drink? A drink from my own stash, my family’s recipe, and dedicated to my comrades in arms.”

“Oh, finally.” Daylen took the offered bottle. “I get to taste Oghren’s famous brew.”

Oghren laughed. “The Warden steps up!”

Daylen took a cautious swig, feeling a pleasing burn and a deep, rich flavor to the alcohol. “Hm. Not bad.”

“You handled that like a champion, my friend. Most impressive! How do you feel?”

“Was there even any alcohol in there?”

Oghren roared with laughter. “That’s the spirit! I just wanted to tell you that after all we’ve  been through, you’re like family to me. Closest thing I’ve had in years.”

“A toast, then,” Daylen said, raising the bottle. “To comrades in arms!”

“Now give it back.”

“Nope!” Daylen took a large gulp of the liquor. 

The Warden woke up, feeling a warm body pressed up against his front, his arm wrapped protectively around the person's waist. It felt as if there was a small, furry animal that had crawled in his mouth and died, there was a stench of burnt hair in the tent, and his head was pounding. Daylen opened his mouth, trying to groan, the noise coming out as a strangled croak. His bedmate stirred, and Daylen prodded upwards, finding a distinct lack of breasts and rough stubble on a chin.

“Alistair?” Daylen managed after a long moment.

The other Warden's response was faint, bearing deep confusion and a hint of amusement. “Yes?”

“Why am I spooning you?”

“I was hoping you would know,” Alistair replied.

The Wardens stumbled out of the tent, Daylen wondering where his pants had gone, Alistair wrapping his blanket around his shoulders. Leliana was sitting by the fire, idly strumming her lute, clearly fighting a grin. Wynne was knitting away, equally amused. Zevran wasn't even trying to hide it as he worked oil into his boots, his bare feet just close enough to the fire to keep warm. Daylen spotted Oghren drinking heavily, leaning to one side.

“Someone want to fill me in?” Daylen asked faintly.

Zevran looked up. “You sure you want that question answered?”

“I was until you said that,” Alistair replied, sitting down and wincing. “Why does my rear hurt?”

Daylen glanced over, deeply confused. “All right. The last thing I remember was drinking something Oghren gave me.”

“After which, you staggered over and hugged me,” Wynne said. “And your dog.”

“And Sten,” Leliana added. “You claimed it was a way to boost morale. Then you hugged Shale, saying it was the thought that counted, even though she couldn't feel it.”

“And you hugged me,” Zevran continued. “You asked me to watch where my hands were. I must talk to them about manners.”

“Then you stumbled over and were...well, more leaning, on Morrigan,” Leliana took over again. “You told her you knew she didn't hate you entirely, and she asked why you were so intent on making that so. And then she set you on fire and went to bed.”

Daylen prodded at his beard, finding a burnt patch. “That explains the smell.”

“And after we put you out, you hugged me and fell asleep,” Leliana finished. “I honestly am not sure of how you ended up in Alistair's tent, you were asleep in your own bedroll.”

“I better go talk with him.”

“I’ve been watching you,” Oghren slurred as he approached. “Where can I get some sauce for that rump roast?”

“Right here, you mad dwarven stallion,” Daylen replied cheekily.

“Go make yourself ready, woman, I’ll be right there to see to it.”

“I may have started something I can’t finish,” Daylen muttered.

“You saw it!” Oghren suddenly shouted. “You tell that thing to give it back?”

Daylen glanced over. “You having ‘Oghren Time’ again?”

“Only if by ‘Oghren Time’ you mean…” Oghren paused. “Yes. But that dog ruined it when he stole my pants. But I’ll show him. I don’t need my pants, anyway.”

“Oghren?”

“Eh?”

“You’re _wearing_ your pants.”

“But the dog doesn’t know that,” Oghren slurred. “And that will be his sodding downfall! You hear that, nug-humper? I’m coming for you! Prepare to die!” The dwarf slowly keeled over, his armor clattering. Daylen prodded the dwarf a few times, and the berserker rolled over, his eyes half-focused on Daylen. “You! You have a lot of nerve coming here!”

“This is my camp, Oghren,” Daylen replied.

“Oh no you don’t! You can’t come swishing in here and take over the Warden’s camp like that! I’ll fight you with my sodding weapon, you moss-biting poetess!”

“Poetess? Oh. You think I’m Hespith.”

“Your disguise can’t fool me, woman!” Daylen stared, and the dwarf growled. “That’s right, you keep looking at me like that! I’ll just go get my pants from that sodding dog…”

Daylen shook his head as the dwarf began snoring. “Perhaps I’m still drunk.” He found Zevran working a whetstone across the edge of his axe, the elf nodding as Daylen sat down next to you.

“I did not thank you,” Zevran said. “It occurs to me now that you have freed me from the Crows, and yet I did not think to thank you for it. No matter why you did it, still it was done, and I the benefactor. So…thank you.”

“We’re friends, Zevran,” Daylen replied. “I was glad to do it. Well, not _glad_ , I didn’t _enjoy_ killing those Crows, but…I was glad to back you up.”

“You say that so quickly, and yet it is an odd thing for me to hear. In the Crows, we do not have ‘friends,’ and yet here you are and I consider you such.”

Daylen gave the elf an odd look. “Zevran, you were raised basically in slavery. If you have a chance to live your life now because of what I did, that’s not a favor I did you, that’s something I should have done whether or not it benefited me. We’re comrades-in-arms.”

“Then allow me to say this,” Zevran said. “What we are doing here, stopping the Blight? I cannot think of anything I have ever done which is so worthy.”

“How about that long weekend in Antiva you told me about, the one with the tournament you had to fix?”

“That’s _someone_ I have done, not something. Well, several someones,” Zevran chuckled. “But I mean to say that I intend to see this through to the end with you. After all, someone must take responsibility for preventing your untimely death. A suitable task for a friend, yes?”

“Sounds good to me,” Daylen agreed. “But you don’t need to die either, you know.”

“Oh, _I’m_ not going to die. It’s always the Grey Wardens that die. Did you not read stories as a child? The hero always dies.” Daylen’s smile slipped slightly, and Zevran either didn’t notice or didn’t comment as he went on. “Unless the hero has a trusty sidekick with him. Then…hm.” He scratched his chin. “Then the sidekick dies, instead. I knew there was a catch. This friendship business is for the birds, I see.”

Daylen laughed, running a hand through his hair. “And what happens to the roguishly handsome former assassin?”

“Why, he rides off into the sunset with all the women, of course.” Daylen laughed again. “Leliana is very pretty, and of course Morrigan is lovely, but Wynne?” The elf shook his head.

“Are you going on about my bosom again?” Wynne asked.

“I think so,” Daylen said. “He was just claiming that he was going to ‘ride off into the sunset with all the women,’ and I was wondering whether he had any hope of surviving that encounter.”

“Well, I can think of worse ways to go,” Zevran mused. “You know, I have heard stories about your Circle of the Magi, my dear Wynne.”

Wynne sighed, clearly expecting nothing good. “Is that so.”

“There is a Circle in my country, of course, but perhaps things are different here. I visited the Antivan Circle on official Crow business, once. Met a beautiful young apprentice who was very eager for a taste of the outside world...”

Wynne rolled her eyes. “Please! Please, get to the point.”

“All I wonder is whether the Templars guard the mages here as closely as they do in Antiva. In Antiva, the Templars watch the Circle like a jealous husband guarding the chastity of a wanton bride.”

“Interesting metaphor, but yes, it is not too different in Ferelden,” Wynne said.

Zevran nodded. “And is it also true that when the moon swells to fullness, the mages of the Circle gather at the top floor of their tower and, naked under the stars, make love to each other?”

“Why did I not get sent to the Antivan Circle?” Daylen asked.

Wynne was scandalized. “What? No! Maker's breath...”

“Oh. I found out recently that it was not true in Antiva and hoped that it would be in Ferelden,” Zevran sighed. “Alas.” Wynne sighed, closed her book with a thump, and crawled into her tent, leaving Zevran and the Warden alone by the fire. The two sat in silence until the sound of Wynne snoring softly reached them.

“So,” Daylen said. “Care to tell me about that last mission now?”

Zevran swallowed hard. “Yes, I suppose it is time. You have been a good friend to me, after all. There is no reason to be silent. There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident. My last mission before this one…did not end well.”

“What happened?”

“You must realize that until that day, I was cocky and arrogant. I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often, both as an assassin, and a lover.”

“An ego I’m sure you earned. Then what?”

“One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting. My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise – a wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent.”

“He set you up,” Daylen guessed immediately.

Zevran didn’t answer immediately. “Taliesen agreed to be part of my team, as well as an elven lass named Rinna. She was…a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice. Everything I thought I desired.”

“And you fell in love?”

“Rinna was special,” Zevran went on. “I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me. It frightened me. When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price and allowed Taliesen to kill her. Rinna begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face, and said that even if it were true, I didn’t care.”

“But that wasn’t true, clearly.”

Zevran closed his eyes. “I convinced myself it was. Taliesen cut her throat, and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spat on her for betraying the Crows. When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all.”

“You had no way of knowing that,” Daylen said gently.

“Of course not,” Zevran replied bitterly. “I didn’t care to know. I…wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt. We needn’t have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew, and they didn’t care. And one day my turn would come.”

“So you took the contract on me,” Daylen said.

“You once asked why I wanted to leave the Crows. And you guessed correctly, that nobody else would take the job. In truth, what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens? And then…this happened. And here I am.”

“You ran into me, who offered you your life when you didn’t want it,” Daylen mused. “Do you still want to die?”

“No. What I want is to begin again. Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it. I owe you a great deal.”

“You owe me nothing,” Daylen said firmly. “I’m glad to have you with me.” He paused. “So back at the Gauntlet, that’s what the Guardian was going to ask you about?” Zevran nodded. “You know, I’m surprised to hear you and Rinna were an item. I sort of got the jilted former lover feeling from Taliesen.”

“Er…about that,” Zevran chuckled, scratching his head. “See, Taliesen and I…and Rinna and I…and Taliesen and Rinna…”

Daylen looked confused for a moment, before realization struck like a brick to the head. “Oh. _Oh my._ ”

—ROTG—

A few days later, the Warden’s party arrived at Kinloch Hold. The garrison section with Loghain moved on ahead, heading towards Redcliffe. Shale accompanied them, rather than try to cross the lake in a boat. “I’ll take the rowboat across to the Circle,” Alistair said. “Unless you’d prefer to go.”

“No, no, go ahead,” Daylen replied. “Good to see you taking charge.” The warrior flashed him a nervous smile. “Leliana, Wynne, Zevran, go with him.” They departed across the lake, and Daylen turned to Oghren as they entered the Spoiled Princess. “Your old girlfriend around here someplace?”

“There she is,” Oghren said, looking across the inn. “I’m gonna go talk to her. Look, you gotta back me up here, got it?”

Daylen nodded. “Of course.”

“Thanks, Daylen.”

“Well, go get her.”

Oghren chuckled. “Just be ready to pry Felsi off when she throws herself at me. We don’t want to make a scene here.” He paused, thinking. “Well, don’t pry her off me _too soon_. I mean, a little scene’s all right.” Daylen was snickering as Oghren strutted up to Felsi. “Are you sure you’re not a baker? ‘Cause you’ve got a sodding nice set of buns!”

Daylen facepalmed. Felsi stared at Oghren for a moment, before her eyes widened in recognition. “Oghren? Is that you?”

Oghren grinned, his beard plaits shaking as he nodded. “Yeah, in the flesh, baby.”

Felsi seemed less than enthused to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“Just trying to kick back with a pint. Fighting darkspawn’s a lot of sodding work, you know?”

“ _You’re_ fighting darkspawn?” Felsi asked skeptically.

“Among other things,” Daylen chimed in. “I saw him tear through a dozen hurlocks single-handed. He didn’t even notice that he’d killed number twelve.”

Oghren shrugged. “It was a pain, but…it was a personal favor for the king of Orzammar, you understand.”

“The whole surface to choose from, and you just _happened_ to come to my tavern?” Felsi asked.

Oghren paused. “Er…well…”

“Tell her it’s fate,” Daylen mumbled, rubbing at his beard to hide his mouth.

“What? Oh, right. It’s fate, Felsi. What can I say?”

“Fate?” Felsi scoffed. “The ancestors must have a sense of humor, then.”

“Sure they do!” Oghren agreed. “You’ve had a good look at Lady Helmi, haven’t you? If her face isn’t a joke the ancestors are playing, I’m a bronto’s behind.”

“So…Lady Helmi must be a Paragon of beauty, then,” Felsi replied.

Daylen hid his laughter behind a cough, whispering to Oghren. “Tell her you’ve been thinking of her.”

“I’ve been thinking about you, Felsi,” Oghren said.

Felsi sighed. “What do you want, Oghren?”

“Nothin’,” Oghren replied defensively. “Just thought I’d see how you were doing, is all. Well, maybe that and grease up the bronto, if you know what I mean.” Daylen pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, you’ve seen me,” Felsi said. “You’ll have to go back to Orzammar for the bronto.”

“Oghren, we can’t waste time here, Arl Eamon is waiting for us at Redcliffe,” Daylen interjected, trying to salvage the situation.

“Oh, the Arl needed a new fool, did he?” Felsi quipped.

“Ah, well, it’s been fun, Felsi, but I better go,” Oghren said.

“Wait!” Felsi replied. “You’re leaving? You…just got here. I haven’t even called you a shaft-rat yet…”

Oghren grinned. “Oh, you can’t keep the Archdemon waiting. You hurt its feelings, it just might turn the whole Blight around and go home. Nobody wants that.”

“Seriously, we’d be the worst hosts in Thedas if we did that,” Daylen added, nodding sagely.

“Well…you don’t need to fight it right now, do you?” Felsi asked. “I mean, you could have a pint first. You could call me a surly bronto, I could tell you that you smell like nug droppings…”

“I tell you what,” Oghren offered. “I’ve got some things I gotta do, but I’ll come back for that pint when things’re settled. You frigid deepstalker.”

“Fine, but you’d better not keep me waiting, you worthless copper-plated sword-caste.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Oghren chuckled. The dwarf and a very confused Daylen exited the tavern. “Heh. I still got it.”

“Are all your relationships built on angry sex?” Daylen asked.

“Most of them, yeah,” Oghren said. “And it works! She could barely restrain herself. Let’s get going. We’ve got an Archdemon to kill.”

The group took the boat across the lake, spotting Alistair and several mages loading equipment into a larger boat. “So, you feel homesick for Orzammar yet?”

“Aye, I do,” Oghren admitted. “A bit. A little bit.”

“You ever want to go back there?”

Oghren snorted. “The only way I’d go back is if they all lined up to kiss my ass and didn’t care if they lost their caste for doing it.” He paused. “Actually, that might be nice. But I can’t go back now. I’d rather die than be casteless in Orzammar. I guess I’d rather be a useless lump of a dwarf out here than a useless lump of a dwarf back there.”

“Believe me, Oghren, you’re far from useless,” Daylen remarked. “From what I’ve seen of your brews, not to mention that one you let Wynne try, if you ever wanted to hang up your armor, you could do well running a brewery.”

Oghren looked over. “You mean, you have people who make a living doing that up here? Just doing that?”

“Yeah, plenty of them, too.”

The dwarf’s eyes squeezed shut. “I love the surface. I guess what gets me about Orzammar is just thinking about the what-ifs. All that slag with Branka, how I’ve turned out. I always said I was this way because she left, but I think maybe…she left because of how I am.”

“Well, you were a reputable warrior in Orzammar, from what I heard, but when Branka was made a Paragon, she began to outdo you. Plus, from what you told me, she was a little bonkers to begin with. I think she underestimated you.”

Oghren shook his head. “No, she just…estimated me. She knew how I was, and because of that, she left without me. Worked out in my favor, though. I’m here fighting the good fight and not fed to Caridin’s traps or her pet darkspawn.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. I actually had a messenger sent to the Circle, had them bring an item out of storage for you.”

“Eh? What is it?”

“It arrived with a trader desperate to get rid of it some years back, and it was never used here, so it sort of became a local joke,” Daylen explained as they bumped up against the pier. “They put it in a display case at one point.” He caught Alistair’s eye. “Did they find it?” Alistair tossed him a package wordlessly, and Daylen handed it to Oghren. “I understand it’s called a Beard Flask. Supposed to keep your alcohol accessible even after your arms go numb.”

“By my Ancestors,” Oghren rumbled, unwrapping it. “ _This_ _is a wonderful gift!_ ”

—ROTG—

“Daylen!” Alistair called, staring out over the prow of the ship. “You better take a look at this!”

Daylen was at his side in seconds, following Alistair’s line of sight. “Is that _smoke_?”

“Coming from the village,” Alistair agreed. “Could the darkspawn be here already?”

“Impossible,” Daylen replied. “The armies are all here, they’d have to be fighting the entire horde for the village to be on fire, unless the Archdemon is here. And there’d be more smoke if that was the case.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“Oi, I don’t have _all_ the answers.” Daylen whistled to the mages, who were crowding the deck. “Hang back. Secure the dock, but hold that line. We’ll push forward and clear the village. I’ll signal when it’s safe to move up.”

Leliana had strung her bow and was watching the shoreline carefully. She nocked an arrow, drew, and released, a genlock falling out from behind a barrel and keeling over on the dock. “The darkspawn are definitely in the village.”

A few minutes later, the boat reached the dock, and Daylen signaled to his companions before leaping onto the dock, staff up and ready. Alistair and Sten flanked him, Oghren not far behind next to Zevran. Leliana, Wynne, and Morrigan took up the rear. “Morrigan, take a look from on high, please,” Daylen ordered quietly. “There’s definitely darkspawn about. I just need to know how many.” The mage immediately shifted to her raven form and took to the air. “Alistair, take Wynne, Leliana, and Oghren around the right, past the smithy. Zevran, Sten, come with me. We’ll met up in front of the Chantry, then push up the hill towards the windmill. Put out any fires you see.” Alistair led his group north, while Daylen’s cut to the west, finding a handful of genlocks.

Morrigan returned as the last one hit the ground, the mage’s expression dark. “There are a great deal of darkspawn about,” she reported. “Two ogres in the town square. More darkspawn up on the hill and at the castle walls. No sign of your Archdemon, however. The armies appear to have withdrawn to the north or into the castle.”

“Suppose that would have been too easy,” Daylen muttered, quenching the flames licking at the wall of the general store with a burst of frost. “All right. Let’s go. Lots of work to do.”

By the time Daylen’s group reached the square, Alistair’s party had slaughtered most of the darkspawn in the lower section of the village, and the warrior ducked a swing from the ogre, before leaping, stabbing his sword into the beast’s face. The ogre fell back, roaring, and Alistair stabbed the ogre through the roof of its mouth, killing it.

With the party regrouped, Daylen whistled to Cupcake and the hound trotted off, the Circle mages following the dog back to them shortly afterwards. The Warden hammered on the door of the Chantry as the other mages doused fires and set up warding glyphs. “If there’s anyone alive in there, stay buttoned up! The village is not safe yet, but the Wardens are here! We’ll send word when it’s safe to open the doors!”

The group pushed up the hill, Alistair and his shield leading the way with Daylen on his heels. Hurlock archers made themselves known when arrows began pinging off their shields, and Leliana and Zevran returned fire, Morrigan and Wynne picking off archers as well as Oghren and Sten hung back. A hurlock alpha was waiting outside Lloyd’s tavern, and Alistair began fighting it as Daylen cut around the side and incinerated an emissary. The alpha went down as it found its hamstrings repurposed as a chew toy by Cupcake, the Warden stabbing it in the neck as it flailed. Sten and Oghren charged into the fight as the party reached the top of the hill, the dwarf bisecting a hurlock with a single swing as Sten crushed another’s head with a pommel strike, before impaling an archer on Asala. Daylen signaled Leliana and Zevran and jerked his thumb at the windmill, the two rogues checking inside and making sure no darkspawn were lying in wait.

The last hurlock fell, and Daylen whistled to Cupcake again, the mages reaching the lookout at the top of the hill. “From here, we move as a group,” he said. “We’ll punch a hole through the darkspawn that are attacking the castle and link up with Arl Eamon.”

Crossing the bridge to the castle was a simple matter with the amount of magical firepower they could bring to bear, and the over-large group took the darkspawn engaging the castle’s defenders from behind and by surprise, bursts of lightning, frost, and flame ripping the darkspawn apart. Alistair and Daylen turned as one when they sensed more darkspawn approaching, and both Wardens fell into a defensive stance at the gate to the castle.

“That’s a big one,” Daylen said, spotting an ogre leading the charge.

“It’s an alpha, I think,” Alistair replied casually.

“Oh. Makes sense.” The two stepped out of the way, the mages behind them lined up and casting simultaneously. Torrents of lightning and ice blazed down the bridge, ripping into the bunched-up darkspawn and sending body parts flying as the volatile magic combined and rebounded, the ogre collapsing under the weight of numerous spells. As the last darkspawn on the walkway collapsed, Daylen raised his staff, catching the mages’ attention. “Grease!” Several of the mages cast again, blobs of grease soaking the corpses as the ogre tried to crawl forward. Daylen spun his staff, a fireball zipping from the end and landing on the grease-splattered ogre’ face. The entire pack of darkspawn went up in flames, and the Wardens watched carefully as the corpses burned, making sure none made it out of the inferno.

The flames finally burnt out, and Daylen clapped the nearest mage on the shoulder as he passed by. “We can hold them here, Warden,” the mage replied.

The captain of the guard met them at the door to the keep. “My lord! You’re here! Thank goodness!”

“What happened?” Daylen asked. “And where is everyone?”

“They all fled to the castle this morning, before the darkspawn arrived. Riordan of the Grey Wardens arrived this morning just ahead of the darkspawn. I was told that he has urgent news, and to send out patrols to watch for your arrival. Then we were attacked.”

“Keep a careful watch, there may be more coming. The village is clear, but you should be able to hold them here. Ask the mages to help if you have any wounded.” Daylen nodded to Alistair, the Wardens and their companions entering the keep.

Inside, Riordan was speaking with Eamon and Teagan, all three in armor and several heavily-armored bodyguards keeping careful watch around the room. Riordan spotted Daylen first, and relief was visible in his expression. “It’s a relief to see you unharmed.” He gave Alistair a smile. “And you as well, Alistair. Or should I say your Majesty?”

“Er, no, I wouldn’t say that,” Alistair replied. “Not yet, anyway.”

“The darkspawn that attacked Redcliffe were relatively few in number, I’m afraid,” Riordan said. “It was assumed the horde was marching in this direction, as you know, but that is not the case.”

“A feint?” Daylen asked. “Darkspawn can do that?”

“When being led by an Archdemon, they can follow a strategy, yes,” Riordan said. “The bulk of the horde is, in fact, heading towards Denerim. They are perhaps three days away from the capital.”

“Are we sure about that?” Alistair asked. “I mean, if it’s true…”

Riordan nodded. “I ventured close enough to ‘listen in,’ as it were. I am quite certain. There is, I’m afraid one other piece of news that is of even greater concern. The Archdemon has shown itself. The dragon is at the head of the horde.”

“Maker preserve us,” Teagan breathed.

“But we can’t reach Denerim within two days, can we?” Alistair asked. “It’s too far.”

“We must begin a forced march to the capital immediately, with what we have,” Eamon declared. “Denerim must be defended at all costs.”

“Has word been sent to Denerim?” Daylen asked.

“Word has been sent,” Eamon replied. “But they need more than warning. They need our armies.”

“Is it even possible to reach the city in time?” Alistair asked.

“Perhaps not, but what is important is we know where the Archdemon will be,” Riordan said. “If we do not defeat the Archdemon, it will not matter if Denerim is saved or the horde defeated. And only the Grey Wardens can defeat the Archdemon. That is why we must go.”

“Then we march and hope the army we’ve collected here gives us the chance we need,” Alistair pronounced. “Arl Eamon, how long before the army can set out?”

“By daybreak,” Eamon replied after a moment’s consideration.

“Then let’s get them ready,” Alistair ordered. “I won’t let all those people die without giving them a chance.”

—ROTG—

_Codex entry: The Orlesian Empire  
There are many lords and ladies in Val Royeaux._

_And I mean this literally. Once, the system of noble titles in Orlais was labyrinthine: There were barons and baronnes and baronets and sur-barons and a horde of others, each with its own origins and its own nuances of comparison. The Orlesian aristocracy is ancient and much given to competition. All the nobility play the Grand Game, as it is known, whether they wish to or not. It is a game of reputation and patronage, where moves are made with rumors and scandal is the chief weapon. No gentle game, this. More blood has been drawn as a result of the Grand Game than any war the Orlesians have fought. Of this, I am assured by almost every gentleman here._

_As far as titles went, everything changed with the coming of Emperor Drakon, who established the Orlesian Empire as it exists now, and who created the Chantry. There is no more venerated figure in Orlais; in Val Royeaux, the statue of Drakon stands as tall as the statue of Andraste. Drakon determined that the Grand Game was tearing Orlais apart, so he abolished all titles besides his own, and lord, and lady._

_I am told, with some twittering amusement, that this action did not end the Grand Game as Drakon had intended. Now the lords and ladies collected unofficial titles rather than official ones, such as “the exalted patron of Tassus Klay” or “uncle to the champion of Tremmes.” It is a headache to remember such titles, and one winces to think of the poor doormen at the balls who must rattle them off as each guest enters the room._

_The aristocracy is different from Ferelden in other ways, as well. The Orlesians' right to rule stems directly from the Maker. There exists neither the concept of rule by merit nor the slightest notion of rebellion. If one is not noble, one aspires to be—or at the least aspires to be in the good graces of a noble, and is ever watching for a way to enter the patronage of those better placed in the Grand Game._

_And then there are the masks. And the cosmetics: I have not seen so much paint since the kennels at Highever. But that is another story._

_\--From Beyond the Frostbacks, by Bann Teoric of West Hill, 9:20 Dragon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1MASH. [ return to text ]


	34. Flashpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes together for the race to Denerim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017.

_Nevarra  
The fourth time I attempted to cross the border into Nevarra from Orlais and was turned back by Chevaliers, I decided to take the more roundabout path: a ship back to Ferelden, and then another to Nevarra. The outcome was more than worth the trouble._

_The whole country is filled with artistry, from the statues of heroes that litter the streets in even the meanest villages to the glittering golden College of Magi in Cumberland. Perhaps nowhere is more astonishing than the vast necropolis outside Nevarra City. Unlike most other followers of Andraste, the Nevarrans do not burn their dead. Instead, they carefully preserve the bodies and seal them in elaborate tombs. Some of the wealthiest Nevarrans begin construction of their own tombs while quite young, and these become incredible palaces, complete with gardens, bathhouses, and ballrooms, utterly silent, kept only for the dead._

_—From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of A Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi_

—ROTG—

Alistair was looking at the map, his brow deeply furrowed. “Status of the human armies?”

“As best as they can be,” Elissa replied.

“The Dalish ready?” Alistair asked.

“And raring to go.” Elissa said. “They’ve sent messengers to seek out other Dalish clans, but they’re so disparate that they probably won’t be ready in time to help.”

“The mages?”

“They’ve been working with Daylen on something, they say it might get us to Denerim faster. I’m not sure what he’s got in mind, but he says it’s got a chance to work.”

“Any problems with the dwarves?”

“One of their houses held back troops, but the rest are here.”

“Any word from the Orlesians?”

“They’re too far away to do any good,” Elissa said. “And even if they weren’t, they’re coming to Redcliffe, not Denerim. If there’s another battle, they’ll probably be of assistance, but they’ll never arrive in time to make a difference to Denerim.”

“Then it’s up to us,” Alistair mused, glancing over to Elissa. “You coming along?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” the woman replied. “My brother was at Ostagar. I’m looking to get even.”

“All right, good news,” Daylen announced, coming into the room. “We can make it to Denerim in under three days.”

Alistair stared at him a moment. “So will the darkspawn.”

“Yes, but otherwise, we’d be arriving there in four, maybe five,” Daylen explained. “There aren’t enough wagons and oxen in Ferelden to move all these troops. But the mages can cast large-scale rejuvenation spells, as well as a spell to speed our movements. It’s going to be rough on the mages, but with some planning and a bit of lyrium, we can get everyone there in time, and they’ll be fresh. We do need some horses for them, though.”

“Can you ride?” Alistair asked.

“Only in bed,” Daylen replied. Elissa gave an unladylike snort. “I’ll be moving with you at the head of the group. If we move in a narrow column, we can probably make do with the limited number of mages we have.”

Alistair sat down hard, exhaling. “Wow. That’s…surprisingly good news. I’m a little out of my element here. I think I make a better Warden than a king.”

“You say that now, but in a few decades, they’ll talk about the Warden and the King,” Daylen said. “Not a bad name for the book of our work together, really. Make no mistake, Alistair. You have more potential in you than you realize.”

“You say that now, but I’m not officially king yet,” Alistair replied. “Elissa, do you need me for anything else?”

“Not at this time. I do need to coordinate with Eamon, though.” Elissa departed the room, a sheaf of papers in hand.

“This is a situation nobody should have to deal with,” Alistair sighed, sitting down heavily.

“It’s been done before,” Daylen replied. “Four times, at that. Doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy, though. Someone’s got to save this country from certain doom, and let’s face it, it’s going to have to be us.”

Alistair met his eyes. “About that.”

“Gentlemen,” Riordan said as he entered the room, shutting the door behind him. “A moment? You are new to the Grey Wardens, and you may not have been told how an Archdemon is slain. I need to know if that is so.”

“We were just talking about that. Duncan never told us, but we found out,” Alistair said. “The Warden who strikes the blow…doesn’t make it.”

“Which is why I recruited Loghain,” Riordan replied, ignoring Alistair’s scowl. “The more Wardens we have on hand to engage the Archdemon, the better.”

“Riordan, if you and Loghain fall before us, I intend to take that final blow myself,” Daylen announced.

“ _What_?” Alistair said. “Oh, no, you don’t get out of helping me be king that easily!”

“Alistair, it’s something I’ve been thinking about ever since Soldier’s Peak,” Daylen said softly. “I’m in no hurry to die, but between you and me? I’d rather you make it.”

“As I recall, you smacked me for that sort of attitude, once,” Alistair groused. “No life is more important than anyone else.”

“Yeah, but it’s more important to me!” Daylen shot back. “We sacrificed too much, worked too hard to stabilize Ferelden and depose Loghain and Anora for you to die like this!” His expression softened. “Look, I can be replaced. There’s a lot of smart-mouthed mages with problems with authority out there. But Ferelden needs a leader, and you’re the only option.”

“It warms my heart to see such courage, but do not hurry so to sacrifice your lives,” Riordan chimed in. “If possible, the final blow should be mine to make. I am the eldest, and the Taint will not spare me much longer. If I should fall, Loghain will be next in line. But if we fail, the deed will fall upon the two of you. The Blight must be stopped now or it will destroy all of Ferelden before the rest of the Grey Wardens can assemble. Remember that.”

“But no pressure, right?” Daylen asked sarcastically.

“Anyway, I am sure you both have work to do. You should try to get some rest, while you can.”

“I’ll see you when the army is ready to march, then,” Alistair said. “I guess this ends soon, one way or another.”

“That it does, my friend, that it does.”

—ROTG—

Daylen was speaking with one of the bodyguards in the main hall, discussing security arrangements for Redcliffe once the army had departed. “There seem to be a large number of guards here, but they should be able to hold the village while we’re gone,” the Warden was saying.

“We are concerned that darkspawn assassins might be sent into the camp to harm you or the king. No doubt you could defend yourself from such an attack, but we would prefer you to rest easy, for a few hours at least.”

Daylen nodded gratefully. “How do you feel about the coming battle?”

“I am not certain,” the bodyguard admitted. “On one hand, I yearn for the capital to be defended. There are so many lives at stake. But it feels as if we are rushing to our doom. Do you…truly feel that we have a chance of winning?”

“Of course we’ll win,” Daylen said confidently, lying out his ass. “We’ve assembled an army, we’ve got the Wardens we need, and we’re going to beat the Archdemon black and blue.”

“I hope you are right. I will pray for it.”

“How are things in the castle?”

“There was some groaning after the men received word about the coming race to Denerim tomorrow, but nothing serious,” the man said. “I think many are uneasy about facing the great horde. We will be outnumbered, it is said, but we have no choice. There are thousands of innocents in Denerim. My own family is there.”

“We will save them,” Daylen promised. “Don’t worry about that.”

The bodyguard straightened up, surprised. “Thank you. You can’t imagine what a relief it is to hear you say that.”

—ROTG—

Daylen looked at the marshaled armies and shook his head. “Do they believe, you think?” 

Alistair was next to him, the Wardens surveying their forces. “Believe what?”

“In us. In themselves. In the cause. We saw the mess at Ostagar, and we certainly saw the horde in the Dead Trenches. But they didn’t. They’ve only been told this. Can we ask them to fight and die when they don’t even know what they’re facing? What’s really at stake?”

“You want to go and tell them?” Alistair asked. “Go ahead. You’re better at inspiring loyalty than me anyway.”

Daylen paused for a moment. “All right then.” He strode into the center of the marshaling area, watching dwarves making adjustments to armor, elves testing their bows and oiling leathers, mages discussing spell theory and knights checking their weaponry. Rather than bother trying to make himself heard over the clamor in a call for silence, Daylen stretched and sent a lightning bolt into the sky. “Oi! Listen up!” There were a few cries of shock, but the yard fell silent. “Look, things are going to get tough tomorrow, and I want everyone to know what they’re walking into. My name is Daylen Amell. Grey Warden, Circle Mage, and a veteran of Ostagar.” He began walking, prowling through the various sections, looking the troops in the eyes. “Every man and woman in this army is going to fight darkspawn. Many of you have never seen one. I’ve seen too many of the bastards, myself, but that’s an occupational hazard. But I’m still alive and they aren’t. They can be killed, they can be beaten! If you’re scared, you aren’t alone. Fear is rational. It’s reasonable. The darkspawn don’t fear you. _But they should!_ Every person here has the strength and the will to stand against these wretched creatures! This battle won’t be easy. If we lose Denerim, we lose Ferelden. But we’re not going to lose. Do you hear me? _We are not going to lose!_ We are going to spank those Blighted bastards so hard they’ll run back to the Deep Roads in shame!” The roar from the crowd was deafening, and Daylen waited until he could be heard above the shouts. “Do you know what waits for us out there? Victory! One day, people will ask ‘what were the people of Ferelden in their darkest hour?’ Do you know what the answer will be? ‘Utter fucking heroes, that’s what!’”

—ROTG—

As the sun was setting, Daylen looked out over the marshaling yard, worrying the ring Morrigan had given him. “Warden,” Irving said from behind him.

“First Enchanter,” Daylen replied. “I’ve done all I can. I’ve tried to stick to some semblance of decency in the process, but…what if it’s not enough? What if I should have been more ruthless, taken the easier road a few times?”

“Daylen, you’ve done what you thought was best. That’s all anyone can ask of you.” Irving rested his elbows on the railing, mimicking Daylen’s posture. “You do what you can, make your play, and trust in yourself and your companions to see you through this crisis. I believe in you, Daylen. I have no children of my own, but you have been as much of a son to me as I could ever imagine. And you have been so brave.”

“Brave how?” Daylen scoffed. “Most of the time I was barely holding on.”

“There are so many ways to be brave in this world,” Irving replied. “Sometimes bravery involves laying down your life for something bigger than yourself or for someone else. Sometimes it involves giving up everything you have ever known or everyone you have ever loved, for the sake of something greater.”[1]

“I suppose so,” Daylen said.

“That is not a Circle-issued staff,” Irving commented after a few minutes of silence.

“Recovered it from a Warden base,” Daylen said idly. “I don’t really need it, though. Staves are for squares, throw a fireball with your bare hands like a real mage.”

Irving snorted. “You know the official policies. Remember to check your mana before casting spells and drink some water after you use fire spells for long periods! Stretch your wrists and shoulders regularly!”

The two laughed for a few moments, breaking some of the tension that hung over them. “Tell me something,” Daylen said once the laughter subsided. “When did Duncan decide to recruit me?”

“Almost immediately after your Harrowing,” Irving admitted. “He arrived at the tower earlier that evening, and Knight-Commander Greagoir and I spent several hours with him, going over possible recruits. He thought you were the best candidate.”

“And what did you think?”

Irving paused. “I asked him not to recruit you. Not because I thought there was a better option, but because of what I believed you could do for the Circle. Ten years from now, you will have the skill and wisdom to surpass even my own abilities. But I admit, you have done an admirable job as a Grey Warden. I feel you have found your calling, and for you to have been limited to the Circle for the rest of your life would have been a waste of talent. Particularly in light of the Blight.”

Daylen twitched at the choice of words, but let it pass. “Considering I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time, things have worked out pretty well so far.”

“I never told you this,” Irving said, “But the truth of it is very few people always ‘know what they’re doing.’ The rest of us just hide it very well.”

Daylen was worrying the ring again, wondering why he was feeling tension and guilt. “Well, I had best get some rest. We’ve got some long, long days ahead.”

“Your plan should help us shorten it, but you are correct,” Irving agreed, straightening up. “And some of us are not as young as the others anymore.”

The two mages bid each other good night, and Daylen returned to his room, finding someone standing in front of the fire. Cupcake was asleep on the floor, curled up on top of a rug near the hearth.

“Do not be alarmed,” Morrigan said softly as he entered. “It is only I.”

“I’m not alarmed,” Daylen replied. “I’m glad to see you. What brings you here?”

“I did not come here to speak of sentimental things,” Morrigan said. “I came here to speak with you. I have a plan, you see. A way out. The loop in your hole. I know what happens when the Archdemon dies.” Daylen’s blood ran cold. “I know a Grey Warden must be sacrificed, and that sacrifice could be you. I have come to tell you this does not need to be.”

Daylen shut the door behind him. “Why did you not mention this earlier, then?”

“‘Twas necessary that I wait and be sure. Now I am. Now we speak in private, where no others can hear. I offer a way out. A way out for all the Grey Wardens, that there need be no sacrifice. A ritual, performed on the eve of battle, in the dark of night.”

“Why all the secrecy?” Daylen asked. “What sort of ritual?”

“What I speak of is old magic, a ritual from a long time before the Circle of Magi was ever created. Some might call it blood magic, but that is but a name. There is far more to fear in this world than names.”

“And from where did you get this ritual, Morrigan?”

“From Flemeth of course. I have known about it for some time.”

“So you knew about the sacrifice this whole time, right from the beginning,” Daylen surmised. “And this is why you were sent with us. And this is why Flemeth saved our lives, healed us.” Morrigan nodded silently. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Morrigan sighed. “Had I come to you with this before, would you have believed me?” she asked.

Daylen blinked. “Well, yes, of course I would have. I trusted you on everything else you asked of me, why not that?” Morrigan’s face twisted, and she glanced down. “What do you want, Morrigan.”

“All I ask is that you listen to what I have to offer, nothing more. What I propose is this: lay with me. Here, tonight.” She sat down on the bed, still not meeting his eyes. “And from our joining, a child will be conceived. The child will bear the Taint, and when the Archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon. At this early stage, the child can absorb that essence and not perish. The Archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Warden dying in the process.”

Daylen felt sick, but focused on the issue. “If the child bears the taint, won’t that make it become a darkspawn?”

“Not at all. It will become something different: a child born with the soul of an Old God. I know of other rituals, to purge the Taint from the body, but they are not effective enough to treat Blight sickness. They can, however, remove the taint from an unborn child, especially at that early stage.”

“And after that?”

“After this is done, you allow me to walk away…and you do not follow. Ever. The child will be mine to raise as I wish.”

“You know, I knew you were hiding _something_ ,” Daylen said. “I knew you had gotten in deeper than you intended with me, and to be honest, until you brought it up, I felt I was too. It was only when you started pressing _me_ on it that I realized how I felt.” A horrible thought occurred to Daylen. “Is this why you’ve been so…friendly to me? Is this why you allowed me to bed you?”

“No. I knew it would make it easier when the time came, but caring for you as I’ve come to…that was not part of the plan. But I cannot let what I feel interfere with what I must do. This is important to me. The fact that it may save your life makes me all the more determined to see it done.” Morrigan finally met his eyes. “Please do not…cloud the issue. If you feel anything for me, then accept that it will make what we must do…that much easier.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Daylen asked.

“After the Archdemon has been slain? No. No, you will never see me again. Refuse my offer, however, and I leave now. This is…simply how it must be.”

“So you have no interest in ending the Blight, after all,” Daylen sighed. “About the child? What do you intend to do with it?”

“I do not wish to tell you.”

Daylen frowned, but pressed on. “What will it become?”

“Allow me to say that what I seek is the essence of the Old God that once was and not the dark forces that corrupted it. Some things are worth preserving in this world. Make of that what you will.”

“This really doesn’t inspire trust, Morrigan,” Daylen grumbled. “You lied to me for as long as I’ve known you, slept with me, and now that you’re claiming that you wish to save my life, you expect me to trust you blindly?”

“Consider the possibility that Riordan or Loghain may not be there to make the final blow as planned. What then? Do you run away? Do you let Alistair, the future king of Ferelden, take the blow instead? And what if he does not make it to the Archdemon, either? I am glad to make this offer to you, after all we have meant to each other. Certainly the act of laying together is not such a burden?”

“If it comes to it, I would lay down my life,” Daylen said fiercely.

“Then you are a fool,” Morrigan spat, standing up. “I will not stand by and watch you waste this opportunity. Die, if you feel it worthwhile. Or be overshadowed by another Warden, I care not.” She headed for the door, only for ice to crawl across the wood, sealing it shut. Morrigan turned, finding Daylen pushing her up against the door. “Do you intend to kill me?”

“Hardly,” Daylen growled. “I didn’t say no.” His lips met hers, and she began tugging at his robes, finding the buckles to his armor underneath.

“Come, my love,” she whispered as he undid the straps and ties on her robes, his teeth on her neck. His armor clinked to the floor as her robes puddled around her feet. “Put the thoughts of the ritual aside and let us make this last night together one to remember.”

—ROTG—

There was a chill in the air the next morning as the army prepared to move out, the mages splitting up to their assigned positions. Daylen and Morrigan arose before sunup, preparing their equipment in silence. More than once, one would look at the other, perhaps hoping to be spoken to first, to address what had been left unsaid. But Daylen was still buckling on his armor as Morrigan finished dressing and left quietly, her staff across her back. The Warden paused, staring at the door for a long moment, before sighing and strapping on his gauntlets.

Alistair, Arl Eamon, and Elissa were already assembled and equipped as Daylen joined them. The rest of Daylen’s companions slowly filed in, buckling on their weapons and tightening straps. “We have gathered all the forces we can,” Arl Eamon said. “The darkspawn horde is sure to reach the capital before us, and so we must race to Denerim as quickly as we can. The lives of many thousands hang in the balance. We must not forsake them. You have gathered an army to replace the one lost at Ostagar. Let us pray that it will be enough.”

“Any word from the messenger we sent to find the detachment from the Denerim garrison?” Daylen asked.

“None yet, but they’re probably closer to Denerim than we are,” Elissa replied. “If the messenger makes it, they’ll fall in with the army.”

Alistair nodded. “Any other issues?”

“The army is ready to move out,” Elissa said. “I think it’s time we went.”

“Then let’s not keep the darkspawn waiting,” Alistair declared. “Give the order to move out. We’ve got a city to save.”

Daylen paused in front of Isolde and Connor as Eamon finished saying his goodbyes. The Warden waited until the Arl was out of earshot. “I'll bring him back alive.”

“Thank you, Warden,” Isolde said softly. “You saved my son, my husband...”

“Now it's time to finish it,” Daylen replied, nodding to Teagan. “You coming?”

The bann shifted uncomfortably. “I've been told to stay behind.”

“You didn't answer my question,” the mage said.

“Of course I'm coming.” Daylen clapped him on the shoulder and caught up with the Arl.

It was a tremendous procession, thousands of men, elves, and dwarves marching out of Redcliffe and the surrounding area, heading for the Imperial Highway. The mages that could ride did, moving up and down the enormous column, casting haste and rejuvenation magic as they did. The mages that could not remained in fixed positions along the procession, casting regularly to keep the troops fresh.

Alistair had foregone a horse to lead his troops, although Eamon had taken his knights ahead with a pair of mages and Riordan to scout for darkspawn. The West Road was clear so far, but both Wardens knew full well that would change before long.

“So I suppose once I'm actually king I could end up in negotiations with the Qunari one day,” Alistair remarked to Sten.

Sten stared at him. “My people do not negotiate.”

“What do you mean?” Alistair asked in confusion. “They negotiated a peace treaty after the war, and as far as I know they've kept to its terms.”

“They signed a piece of paper. But only because they knew that you believed in it.”

“And what is the difference between that and negotiating?”

“They stopped fighting for their own reasons,” Sten explained. “And they will resume it again, one day. The agreement means nothing to them.”

“But I thought you said your people believed in honor,” Alistair said.

“They do. The honor of the Qunari is what will bring our warships back to your shores.”

The warrior looked at Sten for a moment longer, his eyes dark, before turning to Zevran. “So what do you have to say about me becoming king? I suppose you don't care?”

“No, no, I think it is quite marvelous,” the elf replied. “A most unusual way to pick a king, however.”

“Unusual?” Alistair shrugged. “I guess it was a bit... unorthodox, even by our standards. Why? How does a king get picked in Antiva?”

“Oh, he or she is elected, of course. Provided they make it to the election without being first assassinated.”

Alistair hummed. “Yes, from what you said that seems to happen a lot there. Makes me wonder why anyone would even want to be king.”

“It is considered a very brave and impressive thing to attempt to become king of Antiva,” Zevran explained. “Sometimes nobody steps forward at all, sadly.”

“And what happens then?”

“Why, we start assassinating those who we think should run until someone does. Never let it be said that the Crows are not patriots.”

Daylen looked up at the sky. “You think it’s too early to start drinking?”

—ROTG—

The sky grew increasingly dark as the day wore on and the army pushed east, dark clouds clogging the sky. Daylen glanced up, an ugly look on his face. “Well, we’re definitely getting closer.”

“Or your luck is about to get us all caught in a rainstorm,” Alistair said.

“Oh, wouldn’t that just be perfect,” Daylen groaned. “You had to put that out there?” He frowned, glancing around. “Alistair, you just feel something?”

The man paused. “I think so? Like we just sensed darkspawn, but they just vanished?”

Daylen looked worried. “Can they do that?”

“No, they can’t,” Alistair said firmly. “They can’t just hide the Taint. It’s not possible.”

“Then what…” Daylen’s face lit up. “Riordan.” The two took off running, Cupcake keeping pace alongside them. Eamon’s company of mounted knights emerged from around a bend in the road, milling about as several dismounted knights ensured a pack of darkspawn on the ground were really dead. Several still had weapons drawn, and Riordan was splattered with blood. The two Wardens skidded to a halt, weapons drawn.

“Ah, hello there,” Riordan called, looking up from stabbing a genlock. “We appear to be on the right track, meeting larger numbers of darkspawn.”

“You certainly didn’t have any trouble with them,” Alistair commented, sheathing his sword. “We barely felt them before they died.”

“With this many knights and a pair of mages, it is less difficult to take on a small warband,” Riordan replied, mounting his horse. “I estimate another day to reach Denerim, perhaps.”

The rest of the army was catching up, and Alistair nodded. “Then we’d best get moving.”

The army marched on, sustained through the night by magic and guided by magelight and hounds. The closer they got to Denerim, the more obvious the presence of Blighted creatures became. The clouds grew thicker, the air grew colder, and a foul stench carried on the wind. The West Road had clearly been used by the horde as well. Darkspawn filth crusting on the highway as they passed mutilated corpses strung up or hacked to pieces and left where they lay. Daylen had expected the gruesome trophies to affect morale, but if anything, the troops seemed emboldened by it, jaws set and taking a firmer grip on their weapons as they trudged on.

The Alliance was coming.

The Dalish had dispatched scouts ahead of the army the night before the main force moved out, and darkspawn corpses riddled with arrows lay here and there along the highway, the scouts falling in with the army as they passed. A few of them kept close to the head of the formation, bows ready and eyes alert. The Warden heard one praying quietly as he walked. “Mythal, preserve me. Elgar'nan, give me strength. Falon'Din, calm my soul. Dirthamen, uncloud my eyes. Ghilan'nain, speed my steps. Andruil, aim me true. Sylaise, guide me home.”

“Anybody else hear singing?” Oghren asked as the night wore on.

“I do,” Wynne replied. “That is a Chantry hymn.”

Leliana smiled faintly, before singing along.

“ _The night is long and the path is dark,_  
_Look to the sky for one day soon,_  
_The dawn will come._ ”

Wynne joined in, alongside Alistair.

“ _The Shepherd’s lost and his home is far,_  
_Keep to the stars, the dawn will come._  
_The night is long and the path is dark,_  
_Look to the sky for one day soon,_  
_The dawn will come._ ”

Daylen sighed, before raising his voice alongside the others.

“ _Bare your blade and raise it high,_  
_Stand your ground, the dawn will come,_  
_The night is long and the path is dark,_  
_Look to the sky for one day soon,_  
_The dawn will come._ ”

The dawn did come, the sky glowing a dull red through the clouds and smoke as they closed on Denerim. A half-wrecked watchtower was looking over the bend in the road, and Elissa signaled for the army to form up as they rounded the bend.

Denerim came into view, plumes of smoke and flame visible in the city. Even at a distance, the sounds of battle could be heard. Above it all circled the Archdemon, the dragon appearing almost small compared to the size of Fort Drakon. The two Wardens exchanged a glance, and Alistair nodded, before jogging up to an elevated position on the watchtower. Alistair raised his voice, looking every inch the warrior king. “Before us stands the might of the darkspawn horde! Gaze upon them now, but fear them not!” Daylen stepped up next to him, and Alistair clapped a hand on his shoulder. “The man beside me has faced untold adversity to rise to the ranks of the Grey Wardens and brought us all together! He has survived despite the odds, and without him, none of us would be here. Today, we save Denerim. Today, we avenge the death of my brother, King Cailan! But most of all, today we show the Grey Wardens that we remember and honor their sacrifice!” He drew his sword, holding it aloft. “For Ferelden! For the Grey Wardens!”

The army charged. They were coming from the south, via the old Imperial Highway. The two Wardens had worked hard to build their army, and it showed. Dalish skirmishers and archers strode alongside dwarven warriors and Circle mages, flanked by Arl Eamon’s knights.

The darkspawn turned to meet their advance, and the battle was joined.

It was when the two frontlines collided that the inexorable end of the world slammed to a grinding halt against the combined might of several armies simultaneously saying “fuck you.” The air was rent by the twang of Dalish bows, the clash of steel and silverite on armor, lightning and fireballs streaking through the air, and the screams of dying darkspawn. The ground shook as ogres stomped along and flung chunks of masonry ripped from half-destroyed buildings, the makeshift artillery plowing through formations of Alliance troops. Arrows and bursts of magic were fired back, and several ogres fell as mana seared their hides or arrowheads pierced vital organs. More magic flared among the troops, wounds closing and bones knitting as the mages did what they could to preserve the lives of those around them.

Alistair and Daylen bulled forward side by side, the Wardens carving their way forward into the darkspawn. Daylen dropped to one knee and skidded forward, freezing a cluster of darkspawn solid and slamming the butt of his staff on the ground. Bolts of lightning arced from the top, the frozen darkspawn shattering as the lightning made contact.

Twenty yards to Daylen's left, Irving casually raised his staff and incinerated a dozen darkspawn with a single chained bolt of lightning. Without pausing, the First Enchanter wove magic and unleashed an electrical storm behind the darkspawn lines, offhandedly healing a badly injured soldier before bringing his staff back around and lobbing a condensed fireball that sent darkspawn body parts flying. The First Enchanter continued the chain, freezing an ogre in place and punching a sharpened chunk of conjured stone through its chest, blowing the beast's tainted heart out its back.

Daylen spotted his work and paused just long enough to remind himself he still had a lot to learn before dropping the devastating blizzard-tempest combination behind the darkspawn lines, gulping down a lyrium potion as the magics ripped dozens of darkspawn to shreds. Daylen shifted his staff to his off hand and drew his sword, parrying two strikes from a hurlock and releasing a blast of frost in the other direction, freezing several genlocks in place moments before a redheaded hurricane of violence and alcoholism set upon them, the dwarf roaring challenges to all within earshot as he hacked the darkspawn to pieces. Farther down the line, Sten waded into the enemy lines, his armor deflecting arrows and weapon blows as his sword carved freely through darkspawn plate, every strike or turn of the blade ending another Tainted creature. A boulder flew by, and Shale charged, grabbing an ogre by the neck. The golem lifted the ogre and slammed it down into the ground, before crushing its skull with multiple blows.

The Denerim garrison detachment had beaten them there. Daylen spotted Loghain cutting his way through a cluster of darkspawn, the old man’s sword flashing as it worked. A fireball streaked overhead from Wynne’s staff, and the Warden shook himself, sheathing his sword and cutting down a swath of darkspawn with a cone of lightning.

Daylen dropped his staff with a pained yelp as a darkspawn arrow glanced off his gauntlet, striking him across the knuckles. A hurlock grabbed him by the robes, and the Warden kicked it in the crotch, grabbing its axe hand with one hand and wrapping the other around the darkspawn's other hand. “Oghren!” Daylen jerked his head at the hurlock, twisting around and forcing it into position before Oghren's greatsword slammed into the base of its spine. The darkspawn folded in half, and the dwarf twirled his axe, bringing it down in an overhand strike to finish it.

The Warden retrieved his staff, casually ducking a darkspawn’s crossbow bolt as he did. The genlock snarled, raising its crossbow again and firing. The bolt found a gap in Daylen’s armor and punched through his flesh just below his thigh, and Daylen staggered, the arrow having shattered the joint on the way in.

“You all right?” Alistair asked, falling into a ready guard in front of Daylen, another bolt pinging off his shield.

Ripping the arrow out of his knee, Daylen healed the injury with a thought, bones crunching as they pushed themselves back into proper pieces and places. “I’ll walk it off,” he growled. “Move. I want that little shit’s head!”

Alistair ducked out of the way, another bolt whizzing over Daylen’s shoulder as he strode forward. Conjuring a lump of stone, the Warden sent it flying, the rock knocking an arrow out of the air as it passed and taking the genlock’s head clean off its shoulders. Another genlock grabbed the fallen darkspawn’s crossbow, struggling to reload it as Daylen stormed forward. The Warden grabbed the genlock by the head, pouring magic into it and using a particularly nasty entropic curse. “Sten!” The giant appeared as Daylen ripped the darkspawn’s mace out of its hand and grabbed the genlock by the front of its crude gambeson. “Throw it at the others!”

Sheathing his sword, Sten took the genlock in both hands and hurled it at a cluster of approaching darkspawn, the cursed genlock exploding a gory mess of bone shrapnel and tainted blood that shredded a trio of hurlocks.

Twenty yards past Irving, Zevran slid almost contemptuously around a hurlock’s axe swing and struck with both weapons, his axe taking off the hurlock’s head. The elf nodded to Kardol as the Legionnaire bulled forward, the dwarf kicking a genlock in the knee and bashing its head in with a mace.

Irving slammed the butt of his staff into the ground, a cluster of arcane bolts bursting from the top of his staff. Each one found a darkspawn’s head, and dozen of the Blighted creatures fell to the ground a moment later, its head burned away. The First Enchanter downed a lyrium potion, before launching into a series of complex glyphs.

Alistair beheaded a genlock, shouting over the din to Daylen as he spotted several ogres ripping into the Denerim garrison that was still heavily engaged. Shale had pushed ahead, the golem ripping darkspawn apart almost casually and ignoring the swords and axes bouncing off its body. The soldiers were left exposed, and a dozen men were slain before one of the ogres finally went down. Another slapped four soldiers aside and kicked Loghain in the chest, knocking the man flat on his back and planting its foot on his chest.

Loghain coughed as the ogre stomped on his chest again, the dragonbone plate barely holding against the assault. He felt two of his ribs crack, and the ogre roared, ready to finish him off when a fireball impacted its chest. The ogre looked up just in time for Wynne's next projectile to knock it flat on its back, Loghain rolling over and scrambling away as his ribs protested. The warrior retrieved his weapons and nodded gratefully to Wynne, who gave him a curt nod in reply, before moving on. Loghain made careful note of how her fingers twitched on her staff as she turned to leave, the pain in his ribs washing away under the sensation he knew was healing magic.

Daylen and Alistair had each killed an ogre by the time Loghain rejoined the fight, Alistair clambering off the corpse as Daylen moved on from the flaming remains of the one he had slain. “Push to the gate!” Daylen hollered, sending another lightning bolt into the sky. Both Wardens put their weapons to work, leaving a wide trail of slain darkspawn in their wake as the Warden’s companions pushed forward, Riordan carving his own way through the horde and heading for the gate.

Daylen set an emissary on fire as he reached the gate, Alistair stabbing the creature and finishing it off. “Come on, come on!” The warrior urged, the rest of the group pushing inside with a handful of soldiers and Riordan in tow. “Secure the gate!”

Cupcake bounded forward, bowling over a genlock and seizing a hurlock’s head in his jaws. The hound rolled his head, snapping the darkspawn’s neck before moving on. Daylen, Oghren, and Zevran followed the hound, the trio hacking apart the darkspawn in their path. Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne cut to the right as Riordan, Sten, and Morrigan hooked to the left. Shale turned and planted her feet at the gate, smashing any darkspawn stupid enough to come close into paste. When the last darkspawn in view fell, everyone regrouped just inside the gates, more soldiers making their way in.

“We’re doing better than I hoped,” Riordan said, flicking tainted blood off his blades.

“That will change quickly,” Sten remarked, wiping down his greatsword.

“Bloody nug runners, we’re outnumbered three to one,” Oghren growled.

“Rather poor odds for the darkspawn, don’t you think?” Daylen asked. Oghren chuckled ruefully. “I’m guessing you have a plan to reach the Archdemon before the darkspawn wipe out our troops.”

“We’ll need to move quickly,” Riordan agreed. “I suggest taking Alistair and no more than two others with you into the city. Anyone you don’t bring with you can remain here to prevent more darkspawn from entering Denerim on our tails. I will take Loghain and a small detachment of soldiers and follow a different route in. The more of us that are together, the more likely the Archdemon will sense us before we are ready. We’re going to need to reach a high point in the city. I’m thinking the top of Fort Drakon might work.”

“The top of…” Alistair sputtered. “You want to draw the dragon’s attention?”

“We have little choice, though I warn you that as soon as we engage the beast it will call all its generals to help it. I can sense two generals in Denerim. You may wish to seek them out before going to Fort Drakon. Doing so would disorganize the horde, but you may also waste resources trying to find them. The decision is up to you, but we will have to loop around the city, as both gate bridges have been destroyed.”

“We’ll have to cut through the market,” Alistair said.

“So our plan is to go to the highest point in the city, wave and scream until the giant fuck-off dragon notices us, and then hope the six of us can kill it?” There was a pause. “I love this plan!” Daylen said, slightly louder than was necessary. “I’m excited to be a part of it! Let’s do it!”[2]

Riordan nodded. “Very well. Good luck.”

Daylen nodded, before turning to his companions. “I'll keep it simple. The darkspawn have made a very serious mistake. They came to us, and saved us the trouble of hunting them down. Today, we will kill ourselves an Archdemon. Fight hard, fight smart, fight together. If it's our time to die, it's our time. All I ask is that if we have to give our lives...let us make death _proud_ to take us. Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana, you come with me. Oghren, you will lead the force that holds here.”

“Aye, we'll keep the sodding darkspawn out for you, Daylen,” the dwarf grunted. “So, this is it.”

“What are you going to do when this is all over?”

“Well, I thought I might go back and see Felsi. You know, find out if there’s anything still there.”

“It’s been an honor to fight with you, Oghren,” Daylen said thickly.

The dwarf tilted his head. “Honor? Nobody’s looked at me and seen honor in a long time, Warden. You took a burned-out shell of an Orzammar warrior and reforged him into a real dwarf. You took in a drunken disgrace and gave me a reason to fight and the will to keep going. You helped me find the one woman in the sodding world who might put up with me, and you helped me get past Branka so I could have someone new. I owe you a lot, Warden. I consider it a fine honor to die for you and your cause.”

“Knock that shite off,” Daylen growled. “Nobody’s dying today. Well, except the Archdemon. And a lot of darkspawn.”

“Let the Stone turn red from the blood of heroes. Today, I will be the warrior you taught me to be.”

“You're one of the finest warriors I've ever fought alongside,” Daylen replied. “Now let's finish the job and go get a pint.”

“Aye, Warden,” Oghren rumbled. “There's a saying in Orzammar. ‘When the blood of battle the Stone has fed, let the heroes prevail and the blighters lie dead.’ As one of the blighters, I sodding salute you. Let us show them our hearts, and then show them  _theirs_.”

Shale stumped over, darkspawn blood still dripping from the golem’s stone fists. “So the Archdemon is next, is it? Part of me is glad that it has decided to leave me here at the gate, but the other part is…apprehensive? I would almost say that I feel concern for something other than myself, even maybe for a soft, squishy companion, but that would be silly, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s scandalous to even consider the notion,” Daylen replied.

“I know! Please, do not tell anyone. I doubt I could blush, but it would be so awkward.” Shale turned to leave, paused, and looked back. “And…do try not to get swallowed whole. If the beast were to fly about afterwards and poop it out, irony would dictate that it would land on me. I couldn’t take it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Daylen chuckled.

“Well, then. I suppose this is it? Have fun storming the castle.”

“So this is it, then. All that we’ve been through has led up to this,” Wynne said. Daylen nodded. “Whatever happens now, to either of us, know that I am proud – infinitely proud – to have called you friend.”

“I know I haven’t always been the easiest to deal with,” Daylen began.

Wynne waved him off. “I have been difficult at times as well, I know. But it has been an adventure, traveling with you.”

“You promised to help me end the Blight, and we’re here to end it,” Daylen pointed out. “You’re a woman of your word, Wynne.”

“I wasn’t sure I would live to see the day,” the enchanter admitted. “But here we are. I thank you, Warden, for helping me give the time I have left meaning. I hope to see you again.”

Zevran approached him next. “So here we part ways. You do not wish me to stand by you, in the end?”

“I don’t want to put you in that kind of danger,” Daylen replied.

Zevran burst out laughing. “Oh, _now_ you worry about my health!”

“Level with me, Zev, would _you_ want to go up against a dragon?” Daylen asked.

“You know, you may be right.” The assassin sobered. “In truth, for a true friend such as yourself I would gladly storm the Dark City itself. Do not doubt it.”

“I don’t, Zevran.”

Zevran grinned, turned to leave, and then paused, turning back. “Daylen, there's something I need to tell you. It's important.”

“Best tell me now, then,” Daylen replied.

The elf looked stricken. “I should have brought this up before, but...you've been pronouncing my name wrong.”

“Beg pardon?”

“It's Zev _ran_ , not _Zev_ ran,” the elf said.

Daylen facepalmed. “We've been traveling together how many months, and you bring this up now?”

“I was waiting for the right moment. I figured now would be the last opportunity I might have. Allow me to say that it has been a pleasure, my friend. Assassinating you was the luckiest thing that could have happened to me. Let me wish you well, and may we shake hands again in victory when all of this is done.” The two clasped hands, and Zevran moved off to help set up some traps at the gate.

Sten was waiting when Daylen turned. “Are you ready?” the Qunari asked. “We have reached the battlefield at last.”

“I’m ready,” Daylen declared. “Are you?”

“This is my place,” Sten said. “Whatever happens, I will not falter. We will take the field, and stand together to see our enemy fall. You have carried us this far. Do not doubt that. The arishok asked, ‘what is the Blight?’ I stand here looking into its eyes, and still I have no answer for him. But perhaps you do.”

“It’s a long story, the end of which we’re about to write,” Daylen replied. “Let’s get this done.”

“It shall be as you command, _kadan_.”

Leliana had retrieved as many arrows as she could, stowing them back in her quiver. “So this is it…this is the end. We’ve come so far. It’s strange knowing that all our fates will be decided in a matter of hours. We stand on the precipice, before the greatest battle of our age…I wonder if the heroes of old ever felt like this.”

“Probably,” Daylen admitted. “But you have to make it out of this alive.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the storyteller in this group, and this has been one amazing tale. I would hate to see it lost.”

Leliana smiled. “I am not afraid. We go to fight for a good cause and there is nowhere else I would rather be. You are a dear, dear friend, and I will stand with you, to whatever end. This day, we will forge a legend of our own.”

Cupcake fell in behind Daylen, but the Warden shook his head. “Not this time, boy.” The dog gave a plaintive whine, and Daylen knelt, scratching his ears. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. But I need you to stay here and look after them. You be good, you hear?” The dog barked, licking Daylen’s face. “I love you too, you big sloppy lug.”

The quartet began moving towards the inner gate, and Alistair paused. “Before we head after the Archdemon, I want to say something. Either we both die trying to kill it, or one of us dies making the final blow. Either way, both of us aren’t walking out of here.” Daylen kept his face carefully blank. “So I just want you to know that it’s been an honor fighting by your side.”

“I feel the same way,” Daylen said softly. “You’ve been just about the best friend I ever had, Alistair. You’ve been a brother to me.”

“And you to me,” Alistair replied. “Let’s find this Archdemon, then, and kick its ass.” The two bumped helmets, and they began jogging for the gate. Morrigan lagged behind slightly, catching Daylen’s eye, and the Warden slowed down slightly.

“Morrigan,” Daylen said softly, his throat and eyes burning.

“Once this is done, no matter how it turns out I will be gone. You are aware of this, yes?”

“I will find you, Morrigan,” Daylen replied. “I swear it.”

She flinched. “I would not suggest searching for me. I do not think that would be wise.”

“If we both survive this,” Daylen rasped, his voice thick. “We'll deal with that. For what it’s worth, thank you, for what you’ve done.”

“There is far more I might have done for you, had this been another time and we…different people.”

“I know, Morrigan, I know. I was hoping you might have changed your mind, or at least you would stay for the celebrations.”

“It…is tempting,” she replied. “You do not know how much. But it would not be wise.”

Daylen took the plunge. “I love you, Morrigan. I always will.”

The woman closed her eyes, as if pained. “And so you…make it difficult for me, do you? This could have been so much easier. I was foolish, and I allowed myself…” She paused. “I allowed myself to love you. I should have known better. Yet I…cannot regret what was between us. I will always remember you…my love.”

Daylen nodded as they entered the Denerim market. “Now let's kick in some darkspawn skulls. Ready yourselves.”

“Any idea what these generals will look like?” Leliana asked, keeping an eye out for darkspawn.

“Probably hurlocks,” Alistair said. “Ogres don’t typically command groups of darkspawn. Look for the biggest, meanest, ugliest one, that’s probably the general. With so many darkspawn already in the city, I can’t tell who’s who, but I’m guessing they’ll find us.”

“They did,” Daylen warned, flinging a fireball. “Looks like the City Guard didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Against the full party, a pair of ogres would have been killed almost immediately. Against the four of them, the two massive darkspawn were a tough battle, until Daylen froze one in place so the entire group could focus on the other. When it finally fell, Morrigan and Daylen re-froze the other solid and pounded it to death with conjured stone projectiles.

“We’ll have to cut through the Alienage,” Alistair called, ducking as a piece of debris flung by an ogre soared by. Leliana responded with an arrow that put out one of the ogre’s eyes, the wounded darkspawn shoved aside by another ogre that began to charge. Daylen’s spell coated the ground in front of the charging ogre with grease, and the ogre slipped, its elbow deforming hideously as it hit the ground. Morrigan dropped a fireball on the mess, the flames consuming the screaming ogre as Alistair and Daylen pushed forward with Leliana providing support. The Wardens downed a dozen hurlocks before locating the first of their quarry.

“Big, mean, ugly,” Daylen said as the oversized hurlock stomped towards them. “I’d say this is the general.”

Alistair bore several strikes from the hurlock’s massive battleaxe on his shield, watching how the general moved, before ducking the general’s next swing and stabbing through the darkspawn’s battered armor. The strike tore through the general’s thigh, ripping open an artery. The general howled and lashed out, catching Alistair in the mouth as blood spurted from the darkspawn’s leg. Alistair spat blood in the darkspawn’s face. “ _Right then_.” The general brought the axe down in an overhand strike, intended to cleave him in half. Alistair dodged and stomped on the weapon, pinning it to the ground as he slammed his shield into the darkspawn’s face, knocking the general flat on its back and away from its weapon.

The Warden backed off, parrying a genlock's low axe blow and snapping its head back with a jab from his shield, before lopping its head off. An arrow burred into his shield, and Alistair's head twisted around, eyes narrowing at the hurlock archer moments before Daylen incinerated it. The general, badly injured but back on its feet, seized Alistair’s sword by the blade, ignoring the silverite cutting into its flesh. Twisting, the general pulled the blade out of Alistair’s hand, and the warrior dropped his shield, kicking the darkspawn in the crotch and punching it in the face. A cloud of tainted blood and teeth flew out of the general’s mouth as Alistair’s right hook connected, and the darkspawn retaliated, letting loose a dizzying flurry of punches.

Against someone unaccustomed to fighting, it would have been a one-sided battle. But Alistair had been trained, and trained well. He dodged several shots, bearing a few on his heavy bracers, before blocking a hook with his right arm and drawing Duncan’s dagger with his left. The dagger speared through the general’s wrist as it tried to strike at the opening Alistair had provided, and the warrior pressed the advantage, his armored gauntlets augmenting his blows as he opened up with a rapid-fire series of jabs and hooks. A devastating uppercut dropped the injured general flat on its back, and Alistair grabbed his dropped sword, kicking the darkspawn in the head as it tried to rise and jamming the blade into its throat.

The last darkspawn in the area dropped with an arrow through its skull, and Daylen glanced around as Alistair retrieved his shield. “Place is a mess. I hope these people are all right.” He paused to extinguish a couple of fires. “Come on, the Alienage is probably getting hit hard.”

It was. A handful of dead darkspawn were already scattered around the Alienage, tainted blood mixing with stagnant water and mud. A fair amount of dead elves were present too. Several elves had armed themselves using the weapons left behind by the Tevinter slavers, and an arrow nearly caught Daylen in the shoulder as they entered the Alienage. “Easy! We’re not darkspawn!”

A redhead emerged from behind a rough fortification. “You! It’s you! The Maker sure gave you the gift of good timing, didn’t He?”

“What’s the situation?” Daylen asked, skipping the pleasantries.

“We’ve closed the gate to the city, but it won’t hold for long,” Shianni explained. “There’s a lot of darkspawn on the other side. We’re doing what we can, but we’re running out of time.”

“Get out of here!” Daylen ordered. “We’ll take them!”

Shianni hesitated, and Daylen rolled his eyes. “The civilians will need your help to get to safety! Go the way we came, find the Arl of Redcliffe’s estate and tell them the Wardens sent you to defend the place. You can hole up there.”

“You’ll need support,” the elf insisted. “We’ll fight with you.”

“This isn’t about us,” Daylen growled. “I’m about to teach these darkspawn why fucking with an Alienage is a bad idea, and I don’t want any elves caught in the crossfire. Now _go_!” She relented, and Daylen signaled his companions as she left. “Leliana, Morrigan, take rear cover. Alistair, you’re holding the center.”

“Where are you going?” Alistair asked.

“Up high,” Daylen snarled, scaling a set of stairs to overlook the bridge to the market district. An arrow whizzed by his ear, and Daylen snapped off a bolt of lightning in response, frying the opportunistic genlock that had loosed the arrow. An ogre was bashing against the gate, and Daylen twirled Wintersbreath, hosing down the ogre with frost magic and freezing it and the gate in place.

Then the Warden dropped a firestorm on the pack of darkspawn. Flesh seared and smoke bloomed as the flames raged in the confined space, and darkspawn fell in droves under the magical assault. Daylen cast again, adding a lightning storm to the mix, spotting a single darkspawn emissary managing to stand amidst the chaos. The Dalish mage-killer spell that had served him so well connected, and the emissary dropped, disappearing under lightning and fire. Daylen downed a lyrium potion and ended the spells, the battered gates dropping open almost as an afterthought. The Warden’s companions gaped at the carnage beyond as Daylen doused a building that had caught fire with ice.

“Let’s go,” Alistair urged. “Across the bridge!”

The group was halfway across when the Archdemon’s roar echoed across the city. The Wardens turned, seeing the beast flying straight at them. “ _Get off the bridge_!” Daylen screamed, shoving them forward as the dragon swooped down upon them, exhaling a burst of purple flames that flooded the bridge. Bringing up the rear, Daylen felt a blast of searing heat through his armor and heard a deafening crash as the Archdemon impacted the stone. He looked back, seeing a large gap ripped in the bridge.

“Everyone all right?” Alistair asked.

“All right, Alistair, I’m convinced,” Daylen panted. “Swooping _is_ bad.”

“Warden!”

Daylen looked up, spotting Loghain on the other side of the bridge. “Riordan and I got separated!”

“Convenient,” Alistair growled.

“Enough,” Daylen said. “Loghain, head back to the gates! Rally the defenders!” The man nodded, heading back into the city.

“You trust him at your back?” Alistair asked incredulously. “After all he's done?”

“His arse is on the line too,” Daylen said. “If he tries to run now, he's got an entire army between him and freedom. Come on. Into the Palace District.”

—ROTG—

Riordan wiped his face, ignoring the half-dozen wounds he had picked up in the course of fighting to Fort Drakon. Looking out from the watchtower he had reclaimed, the Warden spared a moment to hope the others were still alive. The Archdemon’s roar echoed across the city, and Riordan turned to see it diving, spewing flame at an unseen target. The beast flapped its wings, flying in his direction and dousing another target with dragonfire as Riordan drew his sword.

As the Archdemon flew by his position, Riordan gave a battle cry and jumped, landing on the Archdemon’s back between the wings. The beast barely seemed to notice until the Warden jammed his sword into the creature’s hide, trying to find something vital. The beast seized, jerking upwards, and Riordan nearly lost his grip on the Archdemon’s tainted hide as it curled in its wings and rolled, aiming for a wrecked tower. As the beast collided with the tower in an attempt to scrape him off, Riordan let go, sliding along the creature’s body and jamming his sword into the thin membrane of the Archdemon’s wing. Beyond the sheer force of being flung up and down by the beating of the massive creature’s wings, the Warden noticed that the creature was flying higher and higher…and that his grip was beginning to slip.

As he tried to take a firmer grip on the blood-slick hilt of his sword, the blade shifted, suddenly ripping a long tear down the Archdemon’s wing. Riordan had just enough time to say “Oh, dear,” before the blade ripped the wing open completely, a cloud of tainted blood exploding from the wound as Riordan’s anchor failed.

The Archdemon’s wing was crippled, but Riordan was now free-falling from hundreds of feet in the air.

—ROTG—

Daylen gasped as he saw Riordan fall from the Archdemon’s wing. "Oh, Maker, no," he whispered, watching the figure plummet.

Alistair paled. "Daylen, can you help him?"

"No spell I know of could save him now," Daylen replied. Both Wardens winced as the figure disappeared among the buildings. "He was too far for me to cast a force field to protect him. All we can do now is avenge him."

“Maker, take this man into your arms,” Leliana whispered.

“Come on,” Daylen growled. “It’s up to us now. With the Alienage bridge destroyed, there’s only the bridge to the docks left. Any reinforcements will have to come the long way around. We’re on our own.”

The group cut down the King’s Road, carving their way towards Fort Drakon as the wounded Archdemon landed at its top.

The Wardens were coming for the Archdemon, but back at the gates, more trouble was brewing.

—ROTG—

 _The Four Schools of Magic: Spirit_  
_And the voice of the Maker shook the Fade_  
 _Saying: In My image I have wrought_  
 _My firstborn. You have been given dominion_  
 _Over all that exists. By your will_  
 _All things are done._  
 _Yet you do nothing._  
 _The realm I have given you_  
 _Is formless, ever-changing._  
 _\--Threnodies 5:4._

_The first of the two Schools of Energy, Spirit is opposed by the Primal School. It is the school of mystery, the ephemeral school. This is the study of the invisible energies which surround us at all times, yet are outside of nature. It is from the Fade itself that this magic draws its power. Students of this school cover everything from direct manipulation of mana and spell energies to the study and summoning of spirits themselves._

_By its nature an esoteric school, as most others know virtually nothing about the Fade, studies of spirit magic are often misunderstood by the general populace, or even confused for blood magic--an unfortunate fate for a most useful branch of study._

_\--From The Four Schools: A Treatise, by First Enchanter Josephus._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "Redcliffe is a two-day forced march from Denerim" plot point they put in the game makes pretty much zero sense. It gives pretty much the only measure of distance in the entire game besides a throwaway line from Dagna, but a two-day forced march is about seventy miles. It honestly makes no sense to me, but that's Dragon Age for you.
> 
> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1 Allegiant. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 Ghostbusters (1984). [ return to text ]


	35. The Final Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end of all things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working without an editor, so if you know the DA universe and want to help me out, contact me at http://wishfulcynic.tumblr.com/. This chapter is un-edited, so please excuse any typos.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by fevered writing during Nanowrimo 2017.

_The Four Schools of Magic: Primal_  
_Those who oppose thee_  
_Shall know the wrath of heaven._  
_Field and forest shall burn,_  
_The seas shall rise and devour them,_  
_The wind shall tear their nations_  
_From the face of the earth,_  
_Lightning shall rain down from the sky,_  
_They shall cry out to their false gods,_  
_And find silence._  
_\--Andraste 7:19._

_Sometimes called the School of Power, the Primal School is the second of the Schools of Energy, balanced by Spirit, and concerns the most visible and tangible forces of nature itself._

_This is the magic of war: Fire, ice, and lightning. Devastation. This is what the vast majority imagines when they hear the word “magic.”_

_\--From The Four Schools: A Treatise, by First Enchanter Josephus._

—ROTG—

Loghain shook his head as he surveyed the situation at the gates of Denerim.

The remainder of the garrison – _they should never have been moved_ , he thought, _it was foolish to take them from here, they should have listened to me_ – he shook himself, focusing on the issue at hand. The remaining men had hastily erected a set of rough fortifications at the gate, sharpened logs narrowing the portal into a tight chokepoint.

The drunkard dwarf – Oghren, he recalled the name – had organized the Alliance troops that had made their way inside into a rough formation. Besides the motley assortment of companions the Warden had assembled, there were two dozen soldiers bearing Eamon’s heraldry, a dozen dwarves in heavy armor, and a handful of elves behind them carrying bows. A single Circle mage stood off to the side, casting spells furiously to heal wounds and enchant weapons. Loghain felt his own blade grow cold at his side as elemental frost crawled across it. Most of the troops were wounded to some degree, and Loghain’s gut twisted as he noticed over a dozen fallen soldiers amidst the bodies.

Oghren spotted him and waved him over. “What are you doing here?” The dwarf demanded, darkspawn blood dripping from his greatsword. “Thought you had an Archdemon to kill.”

“Riordan and I got separated,” Loghain explained. “The Warden sent me back here.”

Oghren shrugged. “Fair enough. Pick a spot and fall in, they’ll be making another push any time now. Whatever they did in there that made the Archdemon stop flying around, it got the horde’s attention. Most of them are trying to get through the gate.”

“Then why aren’t we arse-deep in darkspawn?” Loghain asked.

Oghren laughed. “Because they’re having to climb over their own dead!” The Warden’s hound with the ridiculous name barked a warning, and the others tensed. “Here they come again,” the dwarf said with a grin.

As the horde closed on them, Loghain muttered under his breath, hoping nobody else would hear. “Maker, watch over these men and women. Give me the strength I need to help them to survive this.” Drawing the blade Daylen had given him, Loghain sneered at the darkspawn charging, before looking at the battered force. “No speeches. Let us _end_ these monsters together. Form up!”

—ROTG—

Daylen stepped over a corpse, his gut churning. “These men never even had a chance. Two dozen men, dead like this?”

Alistair closed the eyes of one of the dead soldiers. “They must have been overwhelmed trying to hold the darkspawn back so people could evacuate on ships.”

“We need to move on,” Leliana urged. Alistair stood, his face dark.

Much of the city was damaged, the darkspawn killing any they saw and setting fires indiscriminately. But doors not battered down could mean survivors, and the Wardens kept pushing, cutting through darkspawn as they hacked their way up the King’s Road towards Fort Drakon.

—ROTG—

Loghain bellowed a challenge as he stabbed a hurlock in the chest, bashing it with his shield and knocking the dying darkspawn off the blade. He took a wary half-step back as Oghren strode past, wide sweeps of his greatsword taking off darkspawn limbs left and right.

Shale was doing an admirable job at holding the gate, smashing any darkspawn foolish enough to come close into paste. Handfuls had made it past when Shale was engaging an ogre, but between the other defenders at the gate they were holding the line. Loghain had spotted Teagan and other nobles he knew fighting outside at points, but from his vantage point he had no idea how the battle outside was truly going.

At the moment, all he could do was keep fighting and hope the Warden did what had to be done.

—ROTG—

Fort Drakon loomed over them. More dead soldiers littered the ground, some partially stripped of their equipment. Whether the darkspawn had looted them or enterprising civilians had tried to mount their own defense was unclear. The gate to the courtyard of the fortress was ajar, and Daylen signaled for them to wait, peeking around the corner. “We’ve got a dozen darkspawn in there, mostly hurlocks. Lot of archers. Follow me in, I’ll block their fire.” Daylen’s mage shields glowed brighter as he stepped through the gateway, flinging a fireball. Arrows pinged off his shield as he strode forward, the others close behind him. Leliana leaned out, an arrow whizzing past her ear, and loosed an arrow that caught an emissary in the neck.

The group was halfway across the courtyard when the dragon hit the dirt. Not the Archdemon, luckily for them, but a smaller, male dragon that had clearly been enthralled by some darkspawn emissary. Another landed nearby, and the battle was joined. Daylen and Leliana set upon one, peppering it with arrows and magic as Morrigan and Alistair engaged the other. The Warden had managed to petrify ‘his’ dragon in place and glanced over long enough to see the dragon kick Alistair with a hind leg, the warrior instinctively bearing the blow on his shield. It was a reflexive action, born of training and instinct, but Alistair’s training had never accounted for dragons. The force of the blow dislocated the warrior’s shoulder and sent him stumbling back, leaving Morrigan exposed. The witch paused in flinging spells and charged, shifting form into that of a bear mere steps from the dragon. The beast was caught off guard as its attacker suddenly gained hundreds of pounds of bulk and natural weapons, and Morrigan wrestled the dragon to the ground, pinning it down as Alistair rose, his shield arm hanging limp. Daylen shattered the petrified dragon with a spell and drew his sword, stabbing the dragon Morrigan had pinned to the ground in the underbelly as it thrashed.

Alistair brought his sword down on the dragon’s neck, cutting through to the bone and sending the enthralled creature into its death throes as arterial blood sprayed the courtyard. Morrigan kept it pinned until it fell still, before resuming her human form, dragon blood streaked across her face.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Daylen panted, wiping blood from his face. “The darkspawn can control dragons now? The fuck else are they hiding?”

“Don’t ask that question,” Alistair said, gripping his arm and working it back and forth until the joint re-seated itself. “Just don’t ask that.”

Daylen nodded. “Let’s go. It’s a long way up.”

The men charged with the defense of Fort Drakon were all dead, but they had made the darkspawn pay for every inch, fighting room to room and reaping a horrible tally on the darkspawn. For every fallen soldier, a good five darkspawn corpses lay among the rubble. There were civilians among the dead as well, either workers at the fortress or those who had fled to the safety of the keep once the darkspawn had arrived.

There were demons farther inside, summoned by a genlock conjurer that fell quickly enough to two mages and an archer. The crossbow Alistair kept strapped across his back came in handy when an opportunistic genlock archer began taking potshots at them from the door ahead.

The corpses of the defenders animated by more darkspawn emissaries were waiting for them in the hallway, quickly torn apart by blades and magic.

A cluster of darkspawn barreled out of a side hall, and Leliana was caught exposed. The archer twisted at the waist and fired, dropping the first hurlock with an arrow through the eye socket. The second hurlock stepped over its dead colleague without breaking pace and Leliana’s second arrow caught it in the neck. The third managed to get close enough to start swinging its mace when Leliana ducked low and shot an arrow up under its chin. The rogue dropped her bow and swept out her leg, knocking the fourth off its feet as she drew her daggers. The darkspawn was dead before it even realized what had happened, and the rogue wiped off the blade and grabbed her bow, retrieving one of her arrows from the lead hurlock’s skull as she passed by.

The next room was littered with darkspawn corpses, and Daylen gave up trying to count them after he realized there were too few torsos and too many limbs to make sense. Then one of the bodies moved, and Daylen nearly incinerated it before realizing it was a dwarf. Sandal Feddic, to be precise.

“Enchantment?” The dwarf asked.

“Sandal, you’re surrounded by darkspawn corpses,” Daylen said faintly, noticing what appeared to be the lower half of an ogre nearby. “What happened here?”

“Enchantment!”

“Right,” Daylen replied slowly. “Do me a favor, Sandal? Hide. If any more darkspawn come by…well, clearly you can handle yourself, but stay safe, all right?”

“Enchantment!” The dwarf clambered into a crate, pulling the lid shut.

“I have so many questions,” Daylen muttered to himself as they climbed the stairs.

—ROTG—

More of the defenders had fallen in the past few minutes. Loghain’s muscles were burning, and despite the stamina the Joining had given him, the warrior was beginning to tire. He gutted another shriek, the creature’s blades coming within an inch of shearing off one of his ears.

Several limbs hit the ground as Sten pushed forward again, the torso landing several feet away a moment later. Zevran slid past the warrior, blades flashing and darkspawn dropping with cut hamstrings or slit throats. On Loghain’s other flank, Oghren’s backswing caught a genlock in the back, and the dwarf twisted the blade free, headbutting another genlock hard enough to knock the darkspawn flat on its back.

A hurlock alpha managed to hook the edge of its battleaxe around Loghain’s sword, trying to pull it out of the way. Having seen the tactic from chevaliers before, Loghain twisted at the waist, providing little resistance and kicking the hurlock in the side of the knee as it moved off-balance. The darkspawn’s knee separated, and as it dropped on a joint that would no longer support weight, Loghain brought his sword back around and lopped off the creature’s head.

The Warden’s hound finished savaging a hurlock and snarled, lunging and hamstringing a shriek that was only moments away from blindsiding Wynne. The enchanter spared a moment to encourage the mabari before returning to casting, waves of spirit and creation magic bolstering the defenders.

Shale was in a test of strength with an ogre, hands locked with the darkspawn as each strained, trying to get an advantage. Finally, Shale apparently got bored and chuckled, before calmly crushing the ogre’s hands and grabbing it by the horns, before snapping the ogre’s neck. The golem grabbed the one side of the massive gates and strained, pushing it back into place. Dwarves bolted through the narrowed gateway, alongside Eamon and the First Enchanter. “The Warden will need your help,” Loghain said as they milled about. “Go! He’s at Fort Drakon!”

The newcomers took off, the First Enchanter casting a spell to replenish their energy and speed their movements.

“The longer this takes, the more people die,” Oghren grunted.

“It’s all up to the Warden now,” Loghain replied, desperately wishing for a drink. “We need to hold the darkspawn here.”

“They shall not pass us,” Shale declared. “Even if it falls, I shall make sure they do not enter this city.”

“Good,” Loghain said. “I saw a golem like you once. Back when I was fighting in the army with Maric, many years ago.”

“Good for it.”

“Could you be the same creature?” Loghain asked. “You were more servile, then. The pet of a mage in Arl Rendorn’s employ.”

The golem turned. “Do I strike it as servile?”

“Not at all,” Loghain said quickly, realizing he had offended the golem. “Perhaps I am mistaken. I would no doubt remember such sarcasm.”

“Then we’re in agreement.”

—ROTG—

“Darkspawn behind this door,” Alistair warned. Daylen wove magic, pulling open the door and casting a blizzard into the confined space, before shutting the door. The two nodded to each other when they sensed the last darkspawn die, Daylen marking the door as they pushed on.

A skilled genlock rogue put up a fair fight against Leliana until Daylen managed to freeze its feet to the floor, Morrigan and Alistair engaging several other genlocks that would have blindsided them had the Wardens not been able to sense their approach. A handful of rickety traps slowed their ascent for a few minutes, and Leliana took the lead, hooking around a corner and immediately leaping back as a bolt of magic sizzled by.

“Emissary,” she warned, drawing her bow. Leaning around the corner, she fired a single arrow, and a pained screech came from the next room. “Dead emissary,” she amended.

The emissary may have been dead on the floor, but two ogres in the room were very much alive, one of them picking up Daylen and attempting to crush the life out of him. The Warden jammed his staff into the ogre’s mouth, discharging a bolus of spirit magic directly into the ogre’s skull. The resulting mess was soupy, to say the least. Unfortunately, the ogre fell forward, pinning Daylen under its bulk as the others took the other ogre to pieces with steel and magic.

Alistair turned, spotting the Warden’s feet sticking out from under the ogre. “Daylen? You alive under there?”

Daylen groaned. “Someone this smelly bastard off of me!”

It took all of them to lift the dead ogre enough for Daylen to scoot out from under it, Morrigan using her bear form’s increased strength to help lift the massive carcass. The Warden brushed himself off, ignoring the blood splattered across his robes. “I think it’s all upstairs from here.”

“Weren’t you two in here before?” Leliana asked.

“They stuck us in the dungeon, not up in the tower,” Alistair explained. “We didn’t exactly get the tour.”

“Let’s go,” Daylen said. “We got a long way to climb.”

—ROTG—

Another of Zevran’s grenades went off, ice crawling up the sides of the gate as the reagents inside scattered. The elf slung two more through the gate, his hand crawling down his bandolier as he did a blind check of what he had left.

“We can’t keep this up forever,” Oghren said, casually stabbing a twitching hurlock again to finish it off.

“We have to hold this line,” Loghain argued.

“I know that,” the dwarf groused. “I’m talking about the sodding army out there that’s getting slaughtered. They have to hang on until Daylen can take out the Archdemon.”

“ _If_ he can take it out,” Loghain muttered.

The dwarf glared at him. “Oi. You’ve never seen him really cut loose. Believe me, if he can see it, Daylen Amell can kill it.”

—ROTG—

“Who decided building a tower this high was a good idea?” Daylen panted, mopping his brow. “How far have we come?”

“Looks like the mid-teens,” Leliana said.

“Well, when we get to twenty let me know,” Daylen replied. “I’m gonna throw up.”[1]

As they mounted flight after flight of stairs, Daylen paused long enough to cast rejuvenation magic on the group, bringing new strength to their limbs. Morrigan flitted down in her bird form, returning to her human shape. “There are no darkspawn from here to the top, and the sounds of battle come from the roof still. We must hurry.”

Finally, they reached the top, and Alistair and Daylen paused to catch their breath and collect themselves.

“You ready for this?” Alistair asked.

“Born ready,” Daylen replied. “Are you? This is the last chance to run for Antiva.”

“I can’t leave,” Alistair replied. “ _You made me king_.” Daylen gave his best friend a weak grin, and Alistair held out a hand. “Let’s finish the job. Going in alive?”

“Coming out the same way,” Daylen replied, clasping Alistair’s forearm. Alistair kicked the door open, and the party charged onto the roof of Fort Drakon.

As they stepped out, a dead soldier flew by, tumbling to a halt nearby. The Archdemon was on the roof nearby, one of its wings badly shredded. Several soldiers with bows were peppering away at the beast. As they watched, the Archdemon swung its tail, knocking the attackers flat and killing most of them. The Archdemon seized one in its jaws, crushing his chest and flinging him off the roof. Another man was trying to crawl to safety, his legs badly crushed, when the Archdemon stomped one mighty forefoot down on his back. A gout of blood exploded from the man’s mouth as his innards were violently rearranged by the impact, and he fell still.

The Archdemon turned, addressing the rest of its attackers with a torrent of flame. Then it turned, spotting the Wardens and their companions.

“I don’t know if you can understand me,” Daylen said, drawing his staff. Raw mana boiled off of him, and he layered several defensive spells on himself. His skin hardened, a pair of shields to absorb spells and physical attacks sprang up around him, and with additional focus, Daylen stepped partway into the Fade. “But if there is some part of the Old God still in there that can understand what I’m saying, know this. I don’t want to kill you, but I can’t let you leave this place alive. I’m sorry.” The archdemon roared, and Daylen bellowed a war cry in response, dropping a fireball on the dragon’s ratlike snout. The archdemon leapt, the edge of its wing smacking Daylen off his feet as the others scattered. Daylen’s head smacked against one of the battlements, and the mage cried out as his helmet bent inwards under the impact. The Archdemon followed up with a blast of flame that splashed over Daylen’s shields. The Warden curled up, searing heat clawing at him. When the flames dissipated, he looked up, amazed to be alive. Wrenching the helmet off, Daylen tossed the ruined piece of armor aside and ignored the unidentifiable ichor smeared across his face as he snarled at the Archdemon. “You can’t have us,” he hissed, feeling blood trickling down over his brow. “You can’t have Ferelden. _You can’t kill me_! Now come on!” [2]

The fight against the High Dragon had been tough. The fight against Flemeth had been tougher. But whatever the Taint did to the Archdemon’s hide, it was more resilient than either of the dragons the group had faced. Daylen cut loose with an overpowered frost spell that barely slowed the beast as Morrigan blitzed several entropic curses, Leliana falling back to fire at range. Alistair found himself engaging several darkspawn that had scaled the tower to defend their master. A few moments later, the darkspawn were dead and Alistair charged back at the Archdemon, bellowing a war cry.

It was as if they were attempting to cut down an enormous tree with nothing but a pickled fish. Leliana’s arrows would burrow into the beast’s hide to little apparent effect, and Alistair hacking away and ducking strikes from the Archdemon seemed to be less injuring it and more making it angry.

“Alistair!” Daylen shouted. “Get out of there!” The warrior fell back, blade flashing as he took some newcomer darkspawn to pieces.

Daylen growled as his latest burst of magic splashed across the Archdemon’s side and dissipated, before digging deep and casting again, his staff vibrating in his hand as he pushed more magic through it than it was made to channel. A petrification spell managed to root the Archdemon in place, and Daylen snapped quick orders to Morrigan, who flashed through a quick barrage of glyphs, locking the Archdemon in place as Daylen gathered most of his available mana, including that which was flooding the air around him.

An enormous bolt of lightning bloomed from his staff, ripping across the Archdemon’s body. The Warden closed his eyes rather than be blinded by his own attack, and he heard shouts of surprise from behind them as Eamon, Irving, and Kardol emerged onto the roof. Irving raised his staff and casually slew a dozen darkspawn, a wall of lightning springing up over one of the tower’s entrances and sealing it off. Alistair nodded gratefully, falling in alongside Eamon and Kardol as they charged at more of the tainted creatures.

“Can you hold it?” Daylen asked, downing one lyrium potion, then another. He groped at his bandolier, finding he only had a single vial left.

“Yes, but hurry,” Morrigan hissed, casting again. “I am using every spell I know!”

Daylen took a steadying breath, cracking his neck and raising his staff. Mana surged within him, feeling like he was about to explode as he shaped the spell, before Daylen cast, a firestorm exploding into being around the Archdemon. Roaring flames seared its hide, but Daylen wasn’t done, layering a whirling tempest of lightning atop his previous spell. Morrigan flinched as the spells combined, and Daylen grunted as he dug for more mana, dropping a blizzard into the mix.

It was at that moment that Wintersbreath finally gave up under the sheer amount of power that had been channeled through it and exploded, turning into a cloud of metal and wooden shrapnel. The vast majority of the debris were stopped by Daylen’s various shields and defensive spells, but his dominant hand, already bloody and burnt, was pierced by multiple splinters. The enchanted ice that filled the core of the staff dissipated, freezing three of Daylen’s fingers together in the process. Alistair had the misfortune to be to Daylen’s right and was battered by the flying pieces of staff. The dragonbone armor stopped them cold, but the magical backlash nearly sent him flying.

Daylen fell to his knees, howling in pain and pumping raw healing magic into his hand to slow the bleeding.

The spell chain cost Daylen his staff and several wounds, but it did the trick. The Archdemon was rooted in place as the fury of a combined tempest, blizzard, and a greasy firestorm blended together, bursts of unbearable heat mixing with bitter cold, blistering winds, and bolts of lightning. Its hide was sequentially scorched, shocked, frozen, and scorched again as the incredible mass of volatile magic tore at it. Morrigan dropped another series of glyphs and entropic curses on it to keep the beast immobile, staggering under the strain and downing a potent lyrium potion to keep up the pace.

Leliana was firing arrows as quickly as she could aim them, downing hurlocks and genlocks with single shots to the head or neck as Alistair dodged an ogre’s charge, rolling to his feet. “Daylen!” He shouted. “Now would be a really great time to get up!” The ogre backhanded him, and Alistair flew back, dropping his sword as he flopped across the ground. Daylen downed a healing potion, his head clearing as the elfroot infusion did its work. Passing Alistair the sword he had picked up from the royal arms chest in Ostagar, Daylen pushed himself to his feet, freezing the charging ogre with a blast of ice and stumbling as the last of his ready mana reserves were exhausted. Downing the last lyrium potion he had on his bandolier, Daylen felt the rush of icy power flow through him and conjured a simple lump of stone, punching it through the ogre’s forehead.

The most immediate threat neutralized, Daylen looked to the Archdemon as his spells finally exhausted themselves. The Archdemon was badly injured, but roared defiantly, spraying purple fire across the rooftop.

“Why won’t you just  _die_?” Daylen whispered, before coughing, his ribs aching. Summoning whatever strength he had left, Daylen began weaving a spell. “Morrigan, keep that blasted thing still!” Morrigan dropped another set of glyphs on the Archdemon, slowing it but not stopping it. Hissing angrily, she lobbed a bolt of lightning at the beast, drawing its attention and keeping it still long enough for Daylen to finish.

A prison of pure, unrelenting force dropped on the Archdemon, magical filaments constricting around it. Hide split, bones broke, and organs shredded under the crushing prison, and Daylen gasped for air, sweat streaming from his face as he fought to maintain the spell, his working hand outstretched.

Alistair stabbed a hurlock in the neck, offhandedly bashing a genlock in the face hard enough to send it skidding back. He glanced over at his friend, Leliana still providing covering fire as the mage fought to finish the beast. Another group of darkspawn stormed onto the roof, and Alistair twirled the blade his father had wielded, tainted blood streaming from the edge.

Morrigan staggered over to set a hand on Daylen’s shoulder, using a rejuvenation spell to revitalize him. Daylen’s eyes lit up, and his lips drew back into a snarl. “Thank you. Let’s finish this.” Twisting his hand, he closed the prison around the Archdemon, releasing control of the spell and letting it sustain itself. Leaning on Morrigan, Daylen watched as the spell ran its course.

The creature collapsed, and Daylen spotted Duncan’s sword lying under a dead hurlock that had an arrow’s shaft sprouting from between its eyes. Limping over, he kicked the corpse off of the sword, picking it up in his uninjured hand. The Archdemon began to move, and Daylen broke into a loping jog, moving as quickly as he could with his injuries, and ducked under the beast’s snapping jaws, stabbing the sword into the Archdemon’s neck and twisting. Tainted blood spurted over Daylen’s neck and shoulder, and the Warden forced the blade deeper, wrenching the wound open. The beast’s head crashed to the ground next to him, gurgling as it tried to suck air.

In many stories, the hero often dedicates the killing blow to someone or something. This was not most stories. Daylen spun the blade in his hand, holding his other wrist on top of the pommel to add extra force, and with a wordless bellow of fury, drove Duncan’s blade directly into the Archdemon Urthemiel’s brain.

What happened next, Daylen’s senses couldn’t entirely process properly. Reality seemed to shatter, the world falling to pieces like shards of glass, and he could see colors blurring around him and noise roared in his ears as the world seemed to shake at a level he had never experienced. He tried to move, to pull away from the sword and the Archdemon and the whole mess and just run and hide, but something held him fast. _Is this death? Is this dying?_ The great presence of the archdemon pressed down on him, threatening to crush him out of existence, and Daylen was just beginning to worry that Morrigan’s ritual hadn’t worked when the presence vanished.

From the outside, it appeared as if a beam of light was shooting from inside the dying Archdemon’s skull, Leliana and Morrigan coming as close as they dared as Daylen stood rooted in place over the beast. They shared a helpless glance, before a shockwave exploded from the Archdemon, knocking everyone on the roof of Fort Drakon flat on their backs.

—ROTG—

Down on the battlefield, Teagan kicked a genlock in the crotch and beheaded it, looking up to see the fading light from the Archdemon’s demise. The darkspawn seemed to pause, before beginning to flee, the alliance troops hacking apart as many as they could. A ragged cheer went up as the last of the darkspawn fled the field.

—ROTG—

Alistair looked up from the circle of dead darkspawn he was in, spotting his friend lying across the dead Archdemon’s head. “Daylen?” Sheathing his borrowed sword, he sprinted across the roof of Fort Drakon, rolling the mage over. “Oh, Maker, don’t you die on me. Daylen, wake up!”

“Easy, easy, I’m not dead,” Daylen groaned. “But I think my ribs are broken. Did everyone see that? Because I will _not_ be doing it again!” [3]

“You’re not dead?” Alistair asked, befuddled.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” the mage coughed, grinning through bloody teeth. “I just killed a god. I’m going to need to take a minute.” Magic flickered around his hands, and Daylen breathed a little easier as Alistair sat down next to him, pulling his helmet off.

“We’re alive,” Alistair whispered. “We did it.”

Daylen snorted, sliding to the ground and leaning on the corpse of the Archdemon. “No shit. I told you we would.”

It was all too much for Alistair. The new king started laughing uncontrollably, clutching his ribs. “Maker, I can’t believe it!”

“Believe it, mate,” Daylen said. “We stopped a Blight. If nothing else, we saved Ferelden.”

“To say the least,” Leliana said.

Daylen looked up. “Where’s Morrigan?”

“Gone,” Leliana replied quietly. “I didn’t even see her leave.”

Daylen’s face fell, and he shook his head. “She picked the perfect time.” More magic flickered around Daylen’s hands, and he coughed, rubbing his side as his ribs knitted.

Leliana looked around, spotting Irving walking towards them alongside Arl Eamon. “So, now what?” She asked.

“Now?” Daylen asked. “I don’t know about you two, but I could use a nap. I don’t think I’ll be coming in to work tomorrow.”

“Well, that is hardly the work ethic I tried to instill in you, young man,” Irving chided.

“With all due respect, First Enchanter, bite me,” Daylen said brightly. “I just killed a god and I’m pretty sure I downed about a month’s worth of lyrium in the process. I’m taking a day off. Alistair, you injured? You took a pretty hard hit from that ogre.”

“Bruised or maybe cracked some ribs, but that’s all,” Alistair replied. “I’ll live. The armor took most of it.” The two looked at Leliana. “And I suppose you didn’t even get a scratch.”

Leliana sniffed with mock disdain. “Just because you two insist on charging into the midst of a battle doesn’t mean we all do.”

“Eamon, you hurt?” Alistair asked, looking at the man. The red steel of Eamon’s plate armor was blackened with darkspawn blood, and one of the pauldrons was crushed in. The arl’s arm was hanging limp, and he looked pale.

“No mortal wounds, my king,” Eamon replied. Irving waved a hand at him, and Eamon stood up straighter as a strong burst of healing magic flowed through him.

“That’s the benefit of having a healer,” Daylen said, accepting a hand from Irving and letting himself be pulled to his feet. Planting a boot on the Archdemon’s head, he pulled Duncan’s sword free, wiping the tainted blood off on his vambrace. Passing it back to Alistair, he accepted Maric’s blade, sheathing the weapon. Looking out over the city, he shook his head. “What a mess. Glad it’s not me who’s going to have to deal with the cleanup.”

“Yes, I do pity that poor slob,” Alistair said, looking down at the sword in his hands and smiling faintly.

“Alistair,  _that poor slob is you_ ,” Daylen reminded him gently.

“Aw,  _fuck_!”

“Come on,” Eamon urged. “There is work to do, yet.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Alistair agreed. “We’ve got a city to reclaim.” He stood, extending a hand. “You ready?”

Daylen looked up, blood streaking his face, matting his hair, and gave his best friend a weary grin. “Born ready.” He turned to the Archdemon and cast a spell Avernus had told him about, sagging slightly before recovering.

—ROTG—

Getting down the stairs was far easier than coming up had been. Between the efforts of the Wardens and their reinforcements, the fortress had been essentially cleared, and much of the Dalish had taken it upon themselves to rampage through the city, wiping out packs of darkspawn.

“I will detail some troops to set up here and guard the fortress,” Eamon declared. “It will also serve as a hospital for the wounded.”

“I will send word to the mages,” Irving agreed. “Their healing skills will be badly needed.”

“Most of the Legion is waiting for the darkspawn belowground,” Kardol added. “The rest of them, along with the other dwarves, will chase them back to the Deep Roads.”

Daylen nodded. “Irving, you got any lyrium on you?”

The First Enchanter passed over a vial. “How much have you consumed recently?”

“Too much,” Daylen gasped around the burn of the serum. “But there’s still work to do.”

A company of soldiers had arrived, and orders were issued almost immediately. “Send runners to the palace, the various estates,” Alistair ordered. “We’ll start from here and work our way out through the Palace District.”

A bucket of water appeared through the graces of some soldier taking the initiative, and Daylen and Alistair scrubbed some of the blood off their faces and hands. “You just killed an Archdemon, mate,” Alistair said, his tone light but his eyes dark.

“Hasn’t sunk in yet,” Daylen replied, giving Alistair a minute shake of his head. _Not here_. “When this is over I may just curl up and suck my thumb.”

“Shit, I missed it, didn’t I,” Elissa growled from the door. “Everyone else was here, and I missed it.”

“Where have you been?” Daylen asked, soapy water dripping from his beard. “We were starting a chorus and needed a soprano.”

“I’m an alto,” Elissa replied easily. “Someone had to lead the battle outside. When that shockwave went off on top of the fortress, the darkspawn broke and ran. I stole a horse and got here as quickly as I could.”

“Smart, we’ll need you here to get things organized,” Daylen said.

Elissa nodded. “We’ll need to set up quarters and food for the army. Send word to the civilians that the battle is won, but we need to secure the city. Organize cleanup details.”

“Just get it started, but we’ll need you back out there,” Daylen replied. “You said you’d spent months here?”

“I know the city well,” Elissa agreed, understanding where Daylen was going. “I’ll get some troops and go street by street.”

—ROTG—

It didn’t take long to get organized. Elissa, Eamon, and Alistair had planned extensively before leaving Redcliffe and as instructed, several of the Banns had taken their forces and whatever elves, mages, or dwarves would come along and entered the city or broken off to chase down disparate bands of darkspawn. The dark clouds that had covered the sky were beginning to break up, the foul weather brought on by the presence of an Archdemon beginning to pass. Alistair took a handful of soldiers and a single lucky mage that had managed to make his way to the fortress and moved out towards the northeast, aiming to link up with the rest of their forces.

Daylen cracked his neck, looking up as the rest of his companions filed in. “One Archdemon, down and out,” he reported. Cupcake bounded forward, planting his paws on Daylen’s shoulders and licking his face. “Good to see you too, boy.”

“Told ya he’d do it,” Oghren snorted to Loghain. “Now what? Break out the ale?”

“Not quite,” Daylen said, looking down at a map of Denerim. “The Archdemon’s dead, but we’ve got a long way to go. The city is still full of darkspawn, not to mention the surrounding countryside. Most of the dwarves should be – as we speak – chasing what’s left of the horde back to the Deep Roads, where the Legion is waiting for them. Which leaves the city for us to handle. Even after we clear the city, there’s what comes after the Blight.” The others looked confused. “The Grey Wardens call it the Thaw. Tons of darkspawn still milling about on the surface, forming makeshift warbands that can still cause plenty of trouble. The Orlesian Wardens will be able to help with that.”

“All right, so what do we do now?” Loghain asked. The man was looking at Daylen with newfound respect, and the Warden glanced up before returning his gaze to the map.

“I want Oghren, Sten, and Loghain to each take some troops and start going street by street. Kill the darkspawn, burn the bodies, if there are any wounded civilians or soldiers you come across, have them taken here. Wynne, we’re going to need you here, to look after the wounded. Zevran, Leliana, Shale, I want you to come with me. We’ll be doing pretty much the same thing. There’s a lot of work to do, so let’s get it done.”

The various companies moved out, having carved through most of the darkspawn on their way to Fort Drakon, and the groups went street to street and house to house, wiping out any darkspawn they could and setting the bodies alight. Daylen paused long enough to tie a kerchief around his mouth and nose, the stench of burning darkspawn covering the normal Fereldan smell of wet dog in a way that made the man long for the way his tent stank after bathing Cupcake. Within hours, fresh plumes of smoke rose over the city, marking the deaths of dozens of groups of darkspawn as they were methodically cleansed from Denerim. Soldiers were tasked to set up places to eat and sleep, with smaller groups roaming through the city to hunt for darkspawn or start repairs.

By the end of the day, the city was deemed clear of darkspawn, Alistair and Daylen rendezvousing at the gates of Denerim and checking notes to make sure no alley had been missed. The loss of Riordan was felt keenly – Loghain did not yet have the ability to sense nearby darkspawn, leaving the Wardens as the only two people in the city capable of truly ensuring the Blight was gone from the city.

The darkspawn had killed many, but Daylen and Alistair knew that the true killer would be coming in the days and weeks ahead. Disease and crime would rip through the civilian population if careful measures were not taken to maintain order and health.

The estate of the Arl of Denerim was thrown open for use as barracks for the armies, as well as Fort Drakon. Several other banns or arls quartered their soldiers and other Alliance troops in their estates. Messengers sent from the dwarven forces pursuing the darkspawn warned that a detachment had broken off to move north up the Pilgrim’s Path, but they lacked the manpower to chase them all down.

The leaders of the Alliance had worked tirelessly to keep the wheels on the cart, and Elissa and Eamon asked for and received a further boost of rejuvenation magic from Daylen. The two Wardens returned to Arl Eamon’s estate, intending on getting some much-needed sleep before organizing further efforts against the darkspawn.

It was only when the two were finally alone in a room at the Arl’s estate that Alistair rounded on Daylen. “ _What happened_.”

Daylen looked at him for a moment, before shaking his head. “I did what I had to do.”

“There were four people capable of killing the Archdemon at that battle,” Alistair growled. “Riordan aside, one of us should be dead.  _Why are we still alive_?”

Daylen’s mask slipped, and Alistair flinched at the guilt and anguish on his friend’s face. “I made a deal with Morrigan, Alistair.”

Alistair closed his eyes, his jaw clenched tightly. “What did you do?”

“She had a ritual,” Daylen said quietly. “One that would allow us to kill the Archdemon and not die in the process. I had no way of being certain that Loghain or Riordan would be there to kill the Archdemon, and we needed to be alive to pick up the pieces afterwards.”

“Damn it,” Alistair hissed. “Daylen, what have you done?”

Daylen sagged, leaning against the desk. “I couldn’t let you die. I…I was afraid to die.” His face darkened as he made a connection. “And I fell for the same setup that gets mages possessed.”

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Just get to the point, man.”

“The demon that gets you isn’t obvious,” Daylen said quietly. “The one that gets you looks like you and shows up with exactly what you need right when you need it most. Right when I needed it most, she came to me with the one way out.” Daylen smacked a gauntleted fist into the desk. “And I fell for it!”

“You think she’s planning something?”

“I think her plan ended once the Blight did,” Daylen said. “And I have little idea where she’s going or what she’s planning next.”

“Well, you’re going to have to sort that out, aren’t you,” Alistair replied. “And alone. I can’t help you with that. You made me king.”

“I know, I know.”

Alistair turned to leave, before pausing. Daylen watched as the man’s shoulders rose. “Thank you, Daylen. We’re alive, because of your decision. And thank you for not lying to me. Now get some rest. There’s still work to do.”

—ROTG—

 _Archdemon_  
_“In Darkness eternal they searched,_  
_For those who had goaded them on,_  
_Until at last they found their prize,_  
_Their god, their betrayer:_  
_The sleeping dragon Dumat. Their taint_  
_Twisted even the false-god, and the whisperer_  
_Awoke at last, in pain and horror, and led_  
_Them to wreak havoc upon all the nations of the world:_  
_The first Blight.”_  
_\--Threnodies 8:7_

_The false dragon-gods of the Tevinter Imperium lie buried deep within the earth, where they have been imprisoned since the Maker cast them down._

_No one knows what it is that drives the darkspawn in their relentless search for the sleeping Old Gods. Perhaps it is instinct, as moths will fly into torch flames. Perhaps there is some remnant of desire for vengeance upon the ones who goaded the magisters to assault heaven. Whatever the reason, when darkspawn find one of these ancient dragons, it is immediately afflicted by the taint. It awakens twisted and corrupted, and leads the darkspawn in a full-scale invasion of the land: a Blight._

_Urthemiel was once the Tevinter god of beauty. In ancient times, he was worshiped by musicians, artists, and poets. The Feast of Urthemiel was the grandest celebration of the year, an event that lasted a full twelve days. Plays and entire symphonies were written in his honor. Now, he is a maddened husk of his former self, filled with nothing but a desire to destroy all life._

_When the first Blight began, many brave men and women threw themselves at Dumat, the first archdemon, trying to strike him down. But no matter the numbers, no matter their strength, he would always return. This was proof, some said, of his divine power._

_But the Grey Wardens soon learned otherwise. Their tainted blood bound them to the archdemon, and they could hear it, feel it, as it died and was born anew, its spirit drawn to possess the nearest tainted creature. The darkspawn were mindless, soulless, empty shells of flesh that could be bent and remade in the dragon’s image. But a man... a man’s soul was not so malleable. When a Warden’s hand struck a fatal blow against Dumat, the Old God’s spirit was drawn not to a darkspawn but to the man who had slain him. In that moment, the souls of both the Warden and the archdemon were utterly destroyed. And the dragon rose no more. The Blight was over._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this fanfic I didn't think I'd actually finish it. I've still got a lot of ground to cover, but that will be under a separate title in the coming weeks. It took almost three years and a ton of work, but I'm glad I did it!
> 
> Feedback is what keeps me interested in continuing. I'll respond to comments in a timely manner as best I can, but even kudos are appreciated.
> 
> 1Ghostbusters (1984) [ return to text ]
> 
> 2Dead Space 3 [ return to text ]
> 
> 3Pirates of the Caribbean [ return to text ]


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